


Twenty-Four Little Hours

by WulfenOne



Series: Butterflies With Angel Wings [18]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 01:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WulfenOne/pseuds/WulfenOne
Summary: Psylocke discovers she is pregnant, but she has her doubts over whether it's for the best, or even if it's natural.





	1. Chapter 1

Warren and I are sat in the garden of the Xavier Institute, the evening twilight just beginning to turn into darkness as the sun sets, and the sky's brilliant red hue turning in progressive shades to blue-black darkness. Warren puts his arm around my shoulder, to defend me against the evening's chill. He clinks his glass of wine against my glass of fruit juice, and smiles. "Here's to us," he says, before he kisses me gently on the cheek and slips his free hand into mine. "Nice to get some time to ourselves, don't you think?"

I nod distractedly, looking with slightly glazed eyes at the patch of petunias planted near the outer edge of the lawn. "I suppose so, Warren," I reply, quietly. In an instant, Warren notices something is wrong and raises his eyebrows in a concerned fashion, putting his glass down on the arm of the bench at the same time, so that he can touch my chin with his fingertips.

"Hey," he murmurs softly. "Something the matter, babe?" Before I can reply, he smiles and brushes his temple. "This psychic rapport deal cuts both ways, Betsy – I know something's not right; I just can't tell what. Help me out here, huh?"

I take a deep breath, and try to give him a reassuring smile. I can tell from his expression that it's not really working, so I look up at the starry sky for a moment or two, trying to find the right words. In the end, though, I find it easier to just go straight for the nub of the matter. "Warren, I… I think I may be pregnant," I say, as strongly as I can. Warren looks as if he has been shot for a few seconds, and then his face breaks into the biggest smile I've seen from him in months.

"You're… pregnant?" he exclaims in an overjoyed tone. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Betsy – I don't know what to say. Wow. Oh, wow. You really think you're pregnant? How far along do you think you are?"

I shake my head. "I don't know – maybe a month, possibly two at the most. I won't know until I talk to Hank about it in the morning."

Warren's grin grows. "Oh, Hank'll just love that. He can't get enough of Rebecca, after all." He notices my less-than-pleased expression suddenly, and his blissful smile fades. "Wait… you aren't happy about this, are you?"

"Of course I am, Warren," I say, knowing full well that I don't sound entirely convincing, "but I'm afraid, too – I don't want my baby to be a target for our enemies. I don't want my baby to be hurt because of what we do."

Warren shakes his head. "They won't be, Betsy. I promise you that."

"How can you promise that?" I snap, more curtly than I'd intended. "Neither of us could do anything to stop Sinister from hurting Rebecca, could we? I don't want this baby to go through that too!" My hands stray to my belly involuntarily, as if I am protecting my unborn child against the world. "They don't deserve that. Rebecca didn't deserve that." I rub my brow despondently, feeling a headache throbbing at my temples, a dull ache that won't go away – no matter how hard I try to force it. "I don't want this baby to grow up to hate me for not being able to protect it. I don't want to be that bad a mother!" I pause for a second, feeling buried fears surging to the surface, like water through a burst dam, and then find the breath to continue "I'm scared, too, Warren. I'm so scared. I can't help thinking that what Sinister and his thugs did to me might hurt my child somehow – I don't think I could forgive myself if that happened." I run my hands through my hair, my hands ending their journey on the back of my neck. "And part of me feels that… that this is all a little too convenient, as if it's been planned by somebody."

Warren frowns, his blue eyes clouding with confusion. "Planned? Who would do something like that?"

"Oh, come on, Warren!" My voice almost rises to a shriek in my frustration and anger. "Think a little! Who gave me Rebecca in the first place?"

Warren pauses for a second before he answers me. "You think Sinister might have done this?"

I nod, unhappily. "Who else? It fits his way of thinking, doesn't it?" Rubbing desperately at my burning eyes, I can feel the buried rage and frustration I've harboured for months begin to swim to the surface. "He might even have made sure that this wasn't your child at all; I know he still has the cell samples he took from me. He could have combined them with the DNA of one of his Marauders; this could be Scalphunter's baby, for all I know. Sinister could have impregnated me with it at any time he chose – you've seen how easy it is for him to get through the mansion's security systems. All he'd have had to do is wait until you and I were asleep, and then I'd have been at his mercy." I cover my face with my hands for a moment or two, running my fingers down my cheeks and pulling the skin taut. Warren frowns, his eyes filling with the same kind of cold hatred that I've usually only seen when he talks about Apocalypse.

"I really hope you're being paranoid, Betsy," he whispers, before he gets to his feet, and offers me his hand distractedly. "Come on. Let's go see Hank, and get this over with right now." He looks down at me, his wings obscuring the moonlight thanks to their majestic expanse, and then he smiles as best he can; the resulting effort is less than cheerful, but understandable under the circumstances. The look in his eyes is still icy-cold – but not from hatred now, I realise, as I feel his emotions bleed through to me along our link. What he feels right at this moment is a gnawing fear; a fear that nestles at the centre of his heart like the Jabberwocky. He touches my hand as we walk towards the house, and I grip his fingers tightly, instinctively, so as to try and share our mutual strength between us; something that we could both use to our advantage at this point. We walk slowly towards the back door of the mansion, feeling the evening's slight breeze blow across our faces and kiss our skin with an almost nonexistent chill. Then we make our way through one of the mansion's ornately-carved oaken doors, which opens onto a small hallway leading towards the mansion's central lobby.

The passageway will take us down to the laboratory area and is lined with paintings of various past members of the Xavier family, while the carpet is composed of rich red fabric. Several expensive tapestries are also hung on the walls of the corridor, each of them depicting various medieval scenes – a huntsman chasing a boar, for instance, or a pair of women sewing beside a spinning wheel. They are extremely costly and have been ferried in from various parts of the world at the Professor's own expense – and they also function as a disguise for the doors to this particular basement lift. Warren brushes a raised nub of the wood beside the picture of the huntsman with his fingertips, and the tapestry raises itself in an almost silent motion. The bared wall is bisected by a wooden door, which swings inwards to reveal a strikingly different interior – the lift itself is composed of sophisticated polymers and metals, so it offers a stark contrast to the mansion's upper levels, decorated as they are in a sophisticated reproduction of an archaic style of architecture.

A shame, then, that I have very little time to take in the contrast. Warren and I quickly make our way into the lift, and I touch the button that will take us down to the med-lab's level with my hand. As I do so, I hear the lift hum quietly into action and begin its journey below ground. It judders once or twice, and I feel my stomach lurch into my chest as it does so, the feeling of nausea packing more of a punch than I had anticipated. I stagger for a pace or so, my hand straying to my brow before Warren rushes to help me steady myself, his arm locking around my waist and giving me the support I need to stand again. "Thank you, Warren," I gasp, swallowing the bitter, acrid taste of bile as I do so. The smile he gives me in return is painfully thin, almost emaciated, and I can feel the strain and the apprehension chewing at his resolve just as much as it is doing to me.

"Don't mention it," he murmurs in a strained, rasping tone, before the lift finally comes to a stop. He takes my hand and walks with me down the metallic, sparsely-furnished corridor that leads to Hank's laboratory. The lights are all still on, which generally means that Hank is still tinkering with one thing or another, feeding himself with Twinkies and chocolate bars as and when the feeling takes him. As we get closer to the lab's door, I can hear him singing Dr Seuss songs to himself over the clatter of test tubes and Bunsen burners – which brings an involuntary smile to my face, despite everything that is weighing on my mind. Warren knocks on the open door, calling "Hey, Hank – can we come in?" which causes Hank to fall silent for a moment ,before turning and grinning at us both, his long canines glittering in the bright, sterile electric lighting.

"Greetings and salutations, my pleasantly unanticipated friends!" he says brightly, putting down the thermometer and Petri dish that he was holding beforehand. "To what beneficent turn of events do I owe the honour of this gloriously late visit?"

I take a deep breath and, just as before, I decide that the direct approach is better, and less painful, than beating around the bush. Well, it worked once already tonight, so… "I think I may be pregnant, Hank," I say, in a slightly shaky tone. Hank's smile widens, and he leaps forwards off his stool, somersaulting a couple of times in the air before he arrives right in front of us, landing as gracefully as an Olympic gymnast, his muscular bulk making no more sound than a cat. When he has found his footing, he stands and grips us both by the hand warmly.

"Oh my stars and garters," he says with depthless cheerfulness. "I do believe congratulations are in order. Well done, both of you. At least now we can say that it's not only Scott and Jean who are the principal proprietors of progeny in this mansion, yes?" Then he notices our demeanour, and his jovial air retreats slightly. He sighs. "Ah. I take it from your less-than-ecstatic expressions that neither of you feel quite the same way. What can I do for you, Betsy?"

"I… I'd like you to do an analysis of the baby's genes, Hank," I say. "I know it's probably too early for you to tell us anything really significant, but I… we… were worried that this could be something that Sinister might have done to me – that this could be the baby of one of the Marauders." I pause, and my hands again stray to my belly, almost as if they are being attracted there by some unseen force. "I just want to know if this is Warren's child, that's all."

Hank adjusts his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a clawed fingertip, and an altogether more serious demeanour seems to settle over his shoulders like a cloak. "I see. Well, if you'd just like to sit on this bed here, I should be able to give you a thorough examination with the Shi'Ar equipment we have here in the med-lab." A small smile causes his canine teeth to peek out over his top lip. "A good thing, too, since I'm anything but a qualified gynaecologist. The female anatomy is a good long way out of my area of expertise, unfortunately." The absurdity of the statement makes me smile too, and that snowballs into Warren raising a faint smile, as well. "There you go," Hank says, winking. "I knew I could cheer both of you up somehow." He takes my hand and helps me to sit on the bed, making sure I'm as comfortable as possible before he moves over to a small control panel set into the wall. "Now just hold still, milady, and I'll have a full analysis of your baby's current condition prepared in a few minutes." He pauses, before tapping a few buttons on the console and activating the scanning beam, which glows with a soft red light as it moves up and down my abdomen, from just below my breasts to just below the base of my hips. "Hopefully I can put your mind at rest." He smiles again, and gestures at the scanning beam with a sweeping movement of his claws. "Aren't the wonders of modern technology marvellous?"

"Well, technically speaking, this isn't modern technology, fuzzy," Warren says as he holds my hand, his tone brightening just a little bit. "Not for this planet, anyway."

Hank rolls his eyes. "There's always one, isn't there? I swear, Warren Worthington, you are the worst killjoy in this entire mansion. Why don't you go and find the others? I'm sure there's something of theirs you could ruin, after all – their late-night showing of Aliens in the rec. room seems a likely candidate." He shoos Warren away with one hand while taking my blood pressure with the other, the small rubber bulb in his hand pumping gently until the armband he has placed around my upper right arm has inflated sufficiently. "Go on, Warren – I'm sure Logan will be happy to fill you in on just how much he appreciates having his viewing experiences interrupted." Hank is about to continue when the machine makes a small pinging sound. "Ah," he says, evidently realising what it's trying to tell him before Warren and I do. "The analysis is complete – if you'd just like to follow me..." Hopping over to another bank of computer screens, Hank taps a few buttons and the machine spits out a long spool of paper. He looks over the results with a conscientious eye, his attention totally focused on the long lines of drying ink scrawled across the page in his hand, and for a moment even I am unsure of what he's thinking. Before long, though, he grins widely, and passes the paper over to me. "Congratulations, mommy and daddy," he says warmly, as I take the print-out with shaking fingers. "Preliminary results show that the little one is healthy, happy – and one hundred percent yours."

"Are you sure?" I say, if only to give myself time to grasp the enormity of what Hank has just told me.

Hank grins. "Milady Braddock, I'm as sure as I can be at this early stage of conception; after all, the baby is barely formed yet. If you look here –" and he indicates a small ultrasound picture of the embryo on the print-out (which confirms to me, finally, that I have a life growing inside of me) "– you can see that the child is still in the process of forming his or her own nervous system. The embryo is not 'baby-shaped' yet, as it were, so there is a limited amount I can do for it at this point. However, I would like to do an amniocentesis on the child when it reaches sixteen weeks old – which will be in around three months' time – just to make sure that the preliminary analysis we've just done is absolutely correct. Until that time, you may consider yourselves parents." He takes my hand and shakes it gently, before he kisses me on the cheek. "Congratulations, Betsy. You'll be a wonderful mommy – just ask Rebecca."

Warren takes offence at that, and stands with his hands on his hips. "Hey, furball, what about me – don't I get a mention here? I mean, I am Rebecca's daddy, after all."

Hank raises an eyebrow. "Yes, and look where that got her – she's become a Yankees fan and can't get enough of _Friends_ reruns. If it's all the same to you, good sir, I'd much rather you were kept as far away from this little bundle of joy as is humanly possible." Then, he grins expansively again. "I kid, Warren, I kid. Congratulations to you too – I'm sure you'll do as good a job with this child as you have with its elder sister."

"You better believe it, fuzzy," Warren laughs. "And don't mock the Yankees, okay? Or your secret stash of Twinkies will become even less secret than it is already." He makes a mock-threatening gesture and then gives Hank a grateful hug. "Thanks, man. I really appreciate this."

"No problem," Hank says, returning his old friend's embrace gently. "Anything I can do for a happy couple such as yourselves." He winks at me, and reaches out to take my hand. "As I'm sure I've said before, I would happily give my last drop of blood for you two. This is purely incidental by comparison."

"Thank you, Hank," I say, relief flooding into my voice. "Thank you so much."

* * *

 

Warren helps me into bed, and then slips his arms around me, his lips peppering my neck with kisses before he whispers "How does it feel?" in my ear.

"How does what feel?" I say, knowing the answer to my question almost before I've even spoken the words.

"To be a mommy," Warren says simply, his fingers gently rubbing the skin of my stomach over and around my navel. "You know, like a normal mommy, not a superhero mommy."

I sigh. "I don't know yet, Warren. I really don't know. Ask me again when this baby is eighteen and going out with somebody we disapprove of."

Warren laughs, and cuddles me a little tighter. "Good answer, honey. Did I mention that I love you today?"

"Oh, only when we woke up, when we had lunch, and about ten times during dinner," I reply, a wicked grin crossing my lips. "I love you too, Warren. And thank you."

"Thank me? For what?" Warren says, a little ripple of confusion passing across the surface of his thoughts.

_For helping me make this wonderful gift,_ I tell him telepathically. _You and I made a life together, and for that I will always be grateful._ I touch his cheek with my fingertips, before inclining my head back so that I can kiss him. "Always."

Warren smiles briefly after he breaks the kiss, and then tickles my belly button with spidery movements of his fingertips. "Thanks, Betsy. That means a lot." He laughs suddenly, as a thought strikes him. "Now all you have to do to pay me back is give birth to that baby. Think you can do that?"

"I can certainly try, Warren," I say, resolutely. "I can certainly try."


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is shining brightly through the kitchen's curtains, early-morning light spilling throughout the room and wiping away any lingering shadows that might have remained from the dawn dimness. I can smell the remains of Bobby's patented Captain Crunch-and-marshmallows ice-cream in the sink, where it is slowly reverting to gooey, sugary liquid form amidst the piles of sticky bowls and spoons, and there is also the faint sooty odour of Hank's toast hanging somewhere in the room. Smiling to myself, I run the cold tap into the kettle and place it on the stove in the corner. As soon as I hear it boil, I place a couple of teabags in the small china pot which I've rescued from its hiding place in one of the cupboards, and pour the hot, flavoursome tea into my favourite mug – a Garfield cup that Warren bought me when we were coming back from our honeymoon – causing clouds of rich, fragrant steam to waft up into the air. I take one small sip, and everything else seems to drop away into the ether, as if the tea's vapours can melt my troubles into nothing more than transient distractions.

"There's nothing quite like your first cup of tea, sweetheart," I say, rubbing my belly gently and smiling at my unborn child. "You might as well get the taste for it now, I suppose. Tea is one of the best things you can drink, you know." I smile stupidly as a thought strikes me. "Of course, you'll probably spend the first ten years of your life wanting to drink nothing but Coca-Cola, won't you? I suppose I had better start stocking up on that now, if I want to be anything other than a 'silly mummy', hadn't I?" Getting to my feet, I walk over to the window that is set behind the sink and look out across the grounds of the estate. In the distance, through the soft rolling fog that clings to the grass like spider-webs, I can see some of the others gathering around the lake for a morning swim (Remy, Joseph and Logan are notable by their absence – evidently they value their sleep too much to go for a swim right now). Ororo has created a soft haven of sunshine around them all, rays of light branching down from the sky and making the morning seem a lot brighter than it actually is – a rare gift that she is blessed to be able to bestow.

"These are my friends," I whisper to my baby, brushing away the thin film of condensation that has accumulated on the glass with my fingers. "When they find out about you, they'll be over the moon. They don't often get to be happy about new arrivals around here; everybody's usually too busy fighting bad people to worry about having children, after all. I think you'll be a nice change for them all." I smile, and stroke my abdomen once again, feeling the toned muscles beneath my skin push back against my fingertips. "You're already a nice change for me – I never thought I'd be able to have a baby, you know. I thought that I'd be childless for the rest of my life after what happened in the Bronx; I thought maybe that I'd been hurt too badly by some of those bad men I told you about just now. And your daddy and I haven't been able to do what we used to do, either; not so much, anyway – but he's been very understanding about everything, and he's never forced me to do anything I didn't want to do. I think we've been together less than five times since I came back from the Bronx, but your daddy never once said anything negative about it. I suppose something must have happened, though, or I wouldn't have you to show for it." My smile widens and I sigh, wistfully. "Your daddy is a very good man, sweetheart. You'll like him, I'm sure – I know I do, after all."

"Talking to yourself, Betsy?" comes a voice from behind me. "That's the first sign of madness, you know." Whirling, my cheeks turning a rich shade of crimson, I can see Jean standing in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded. Even at this early hour of the morning, she is dressed; a softly-hued red sweater complements a pair of slender blue jeans and slip-on shoes. She looks effortlessly beautiful, even when it is clear that she has only just woken up – her face is bare of make-up, and her expression is sleepy. "So, are you going to tell me when you're due, or am I going to have to ask Hank or Warren to give me the scoop instead?" She smiles then, before pushing herself off the doorframe and covering the few paces between her and me in a few strides. "Congratulations, honey," she says as she puts her arms around me and hugs me gently to her, her soft lips touching my cheek. "You deserve this, after the year you've had so far."

"Thank… thank you, Jean," I reply, a little fazed by her display of affection (although I really shouldn't be. Jean often takes it upon herself to be the mansion's very own wellspring of good wishes, positive emotions, and whatever else the X-Men need – a responsibility she takes very seriously). "That means a great deal."

"No problem." Jean draws back from me slightly, and then reaches forward to touch my stomach with her hand. She steps back a pace as she sees me glancing at her a little bemusedly, and then bares her teeth in a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, Betsy – I should have asked. May I?" She points towards my belly with a single well-manicured finger, and I shrug and spread my hands wide to either side of my body, so that Jean can approach me and feel my stomach to her heart's content.

"It's all right, Jean," I say, "feel free. I don't know what you'll be able to find at this point, though – I can't sense any thoughts from the baby yet, and that probably means you won't be able to, either. Besides which, the baby won't be more than a couple of inches across – so if you're hoping to feel it kicking, you'll have to wait a while, I'm afraid." Jean laughs and lays her hand hesitantly across my belly, grinning as she feels my maternal pride at being able to share my child – that is, with somebody other than Warren and Hank – for the first time.

"That doesn't matter, Betsy," she says, her voice almost punch-drunk with excitement. "I just… can't believe this is happening, that's all. Finally, we're going to have a normal kid around this place – it's been too long since Nathan was a baby, after all. I'm sure Kurt and Hank are dying to play teddy bear again after all these years, and Ororo has a wonderful way with children; you should see the finger-paintings she and Nathan did when he was tiny." She smiles at the memory, her eyes clouding over slightly at the thought of her stepson as a tiny child. "They're wonderful… I think Scott has some of them framed somewhere in the boathouse, if you want to see them for yourself." She laughs again, in a silly, yet relieved kind of way. "And you know what else is good about this whole deal? Finally, we have a child around here that isn't part of the Summers-Grey family tree. You have no idea how much of a relief that is… it gets so confusing trying to remember everybody's birthday."

"I think I have some idea, Jean," I reply, returning Jean's expression of humour with a laugh of my own, which reverberates around the kitchen and makes me feel a lot more at ease. "My daughter does carry your husband's genes, after all."

"Well, yeah, I guess there is that," Jean admits, "but at least Rebecca hasn't been lost in the future for most of her life. That's never fun – and I'm speaking from personal experience here, okay, so don't question me."

"When you put it like that, Jean," I say, uncertainly, "I don't think I want to question you."

Jean shrugs, and pats my stomach gently. "Oh, it's not so bad, Betsy – get sucked into the future and try to raise your husband's eldest son, all while avoiding Apocalypse's soldiers and your husband's son's clone, and trying to prevent yourself from going crazy in the process… piece of cake."

"Oh my," I say, gulping a mouthful of tea. "Now I know I didn't want to question you." I pause, and then lift the small teapot with one hand. "Changing the subject slightly – would you like some tea? Only I've got a full pot here and I don't want to let it all go cold."

Jean nods, groaning with relief and rubbing at her still slightly-bleary eyes. "Yes, please, Betsy – I need some caffeine or I'll never wake up." Nodding towards the cupboard where the mugs are kept, she opens it telekinetically and floats out a mug shaped like a squat, stylised penguin, its features dominated by a pair of large, overly-cute eyes. She notices me looking at her questioningly, and raises an eyebrow. "What?" she asks. "Scott bought this for me for Christmas last year. He liked the look of it, and so do I." She pokes her tongue out at me as she mentally pours herself some of my tea. "So there." Swallowing, she touches me on the arm with her free hand and then indicates my stomach again. "Anyway… you still haven't told me when you're due. Come on, Betsy – quit dodging the bullet and tell me, already!"

"Well, Hank told me that I should be due around November," I say, "barring alien invasions, attacks by mutant warlords and unexpected body-swaps, of course." I gently touch my belly and smile down at it for a moment or two. "Do try to keep them out of my way when I'm giving birth, as well. I don't think I'd appreciate interruptions, do you?"

Jean gives me a small salute, and clicks her heels together. "Aye-aye, sir. I'll do my best."

"Thank you, Jean," I reply, before I finish my tea and set my mug down in the sink, balancing it on top of the pile of bowls and dishes with a great deal of care. "I shall hold you to that, the moment my waters break." Once I've put my mug away, I walk towards the kitchen's back door, which will lead me out into the gardens of the mansion. "Will you walk with me, Jean? You and I haven't really talked properly in a while now, and I'd like to set that right." I hold my hand out for her, hopefully, and am gratified when she smiles, finishes her tea, and walks towards the back door as well.

"Why not?" she says cheerfully. "Might shake some of these cobwebs loose." She taps her temple and rolls her eyes at her own tiredness, before she follows my lead and walks out into the slightly chilly morning air. The garden is just beginning to come back to life after the winter, and there are numerous squirrels hopping around on the lawn, carrying bunches of nuts to hide in their nests. There are birds flitting here and there in the sky occasionally, twittering and singing softly, cutting through the otherwise silent garden with their different songs. I begin to walk across the lawn, feeling the dewy grass slide underneath my feet, and I feel the heat of the morning sun splash against my face like warm spring water.

"Isn't it wonderful?" I whisper. "I love mornings like this. They're so… peaceful. I do this a lot, you know – I like to run down to the lake when no-one else is around. It's a lot less strenuous than the Danger Room, and it helps me to think; and with everything that's happened to me recently, that comes in very useful."

Jean nods sagely, one hand at her chin. "I suppose it would do." She pauses suddenly, as a thought strikes her. "How do you think Rebecca is going to take this news?"

"Rebecca? I don't know," I reply, honestly. "I doubt she'll be jealous of a new arrival in the family, though – she's not the type to feel neglected just because there's somebody else around. I hope that she'll enjoy the idea of having a little brother or sister to play with, but I won't know until I have a chance to talk to her – at the moment, you're the only person that knows I'm pregnant, aside from Hank and Warren. I was hoping to talk to her before I told the rest of the team – I think she, above everyone else, has a right to know, don't you?"

"I think so," Jean agrees. "I'm sure you can afford to pamper her silly if she decides to have a temper tantrum about it, after all."

I fold my arms and do my best to look pained. "Very funny, Jean, but I don't think it'll work that way at her age. I can hardly bribe her to like her new brother or sister with a packet of sweets or a new Barbie doll, now can I?"

Jean chuckles. "Oh, come on, Betsy – I'm sure you know other ways to turn a teenager around to your way of thinking. Take her out for a manicure, give her concert tickets, let her drive your car… the possibilities are endless." She spreads her hands expansively, and turns a full circle in mid-stride. "I envy you so much, Betsy. Scott and I have been trying for years to have what you have – you and Warren have a wonderful daughter and a new baby on the way. I envy that more than words can say." She laughs – a small muted expression of amusement that is almost swallowed up by the background choir of birds. "Promise me you'll let me take this kid out for sodas as well?"

"Just as long as you don't feed them endless amounts of chocolate and Coke, Jean; I don't want my child to be spoiled rotten before they hit five years old, all right?"

"All right, Betsy," Jean says brightly, "I promise. Girl Scout's honour." She holds her hand up beside her, as if she is swearing an oath of allegiance. "Maybe just once every fortnight," she adds, with a naughty gleam in her eye. Pursing my lips, I hit out at her upper arm with the back of my hand, no real force behind the blow.

"Tell me again why I agreed to let you and Scott go anywhere near Rebecca?" I murmur, a smile nevertheless spreading across my face. "I appreciate you being there for her, Jean. Sometimes she needs friends more than she needs her mother – at least you're not as likely to fly off the handle if she tells you she wants to get a tattoo."

Jean looks uncomfortable for a second and scratches the back of her neck, as if she is trying to find the right words to convey what she wants to tell me. "Um… about that, Betsy –"

"Oh, she hasn't, has she, Jean?" I say, my heart sinking.

"Gotcha," Jean says, licking her fingertip and painting a line in the air with it. "You are so easy, you know that?" She laughs – a breezy, cheerful sound that matches the tone of the birdsong in the air.

Sticking my tongue out at her, I shake my head at her silliness. "Yes, well, being a mother does that to you, Jean. When you and Scott have that baby you want so much, you'll understand what I mean."

Before Jean can reply, there comes a shout from a little way off, in the direction of Breakstone Lake. I look over to where it is coming from, and I can see Warren waving to us, clad in nothing but a pair of Speedos and a towel that he has draped around his neck. Water drips down through his hair and onto his broad, muscular shoulders, trickling down across his washboard stomach and wiry physique before he wipes it away with absent movements of his towel. He jumps into the air and swoops towards us, propelling himself with a couple of beats of his wings, and as he does so, a fine spray of moisture is thrown into the air. The tiny droplets of water catch the sunlight as it comes through the trees, sparkling briefly as they fall to the ground. Warren alights near the two of us, and kisses me good morning.

"Hi," he says affectionately, placing his left hand over my belly almost immediately. "How are you both today?" Then, realising that we aren't alone, he turns towards Jean and adds hastily "Sorry, Jean – forgot you were there. How you feeling today?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Jean says breezily. "Thank you for asking, Warren." Then she gestures towards the two of us, a big grin plastering itself over her normally serene features. "Before I forget, though… congratulations, sweetie." Her smile widens, displaying more of her pearl-white teeth, which glint brightly against her rose-coloured lips. "Betsy let me in on the good news." She leans forward and kisses Warren gently on the cheek, before she embraces him. "Well, I heard her talking to the baby, so she didn't really tell me, but…" She shakes her head and rubs her brows with her hands, as if she can feel a migraine crawling across her frontal lobes. "Oh, you know what I mean."

Warren smiles, and returns Jean's affectionate kiss on the cheek with one of his own. "I think so, Jean," he says, chuckling. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Jean replies, before she nods towards the lake. "I think you have another visitor," she says softly, and she points towards Rebecca, who is padding towards us clad in a solidly-red bikini, some plastic sandals on her feet and a pair of chic sunglasses balanced on top of her hair, which hangs damply down around her face and neck. "I'll let you three talk," Jean continues sagely. "I'll see you later, guys. Good luck." She gives me a reassuring smile, and then walks towards the small congregation of X-Men who are sunning themselves and swimming in the brilliant blue waters of the lake. As she passes Rebecca, she smiles briefly at her "niece", and then walks on a little further towards her husband, who is lying on a towel and letting the sun bronze his tautly-muscled physique, as if he cannot bear to let the sunlight go to waste (and with a body such as his, I don't blame him).

Rebecca reaches us then, and her expression immediately brightens. "Hi, Mum," she says cheerfully. "Are you going to come for a swim soon? The water's great – Sam said he'd take me water-skiing, if he could work out how to pilot that water skimmer over there." She turns and points with her thumb at the Shi'Ar-created water-skimmer that is floating on the surface of the lake, its anti-gravity units switched off for the moment, and then she smiles shyly for a moment or two. "Took him a couple of tries, but it worked in the end. The others even let me have a go at piloting it… eventually." Her pretty face splits into a wide grin, her scarlet eyes flashing with mischievous fervour. "I don't think Logan will ever forgive me." She laughs, the soft, tinkling notes sounding for a moment or so, before she recovers herself and towels off her dripping face. Tipping her head to one side suddenly, she frowns. "You want to talk to me about something," she says, her tone indicating that what she has just said is a statement, not a question. "Don't you?"

I take a deep breath. "Yes, Rebecca, I… we'd like to speak to you." When her face twists in disappointment, I hurriedly continue "Don't worry, sweetheart, it's not about you. It's… well… it's about me, my darling." I take a deep breath, and enfold her hands in my own, squeezing gently so that I can try and make her feel a little more at ease. "I'm… I'm pregnant, button," I say in a soft voice. "Hank says that I should give birth around November." Nodding at my daughter with a firm motion of my head, I continue "I'd like you to be there."

Warren steps forwards and lays his own hand on Rebecca's shoulder, smiling at her reassuringly. "We both would, honey."

In an instant or two, I can feel Rebecca's sense of shock splash against my mind – it's a good feeling, but Rebecca still has a keen feeling of being utterly stunned by what she's just heard. She looks down at the ground for a moment or two, her brows knitting together and her eyes closing as she tries to assimilate the knowledge that she has just been given. When she raises her head again, she opens her eyes and smiles as broadly as she can, despite her own private misgivings. "Well done, Mum – Dad," she says, putting her own surprise behind her, and letting her own pleasure at learning what's going to happen to us shine through (and she is pleased, at least to some degree – her expression alone tells me so). "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?"

I shake my head. "No, it's too early to tell right now. When I start looking more like the side of a house, though, Hank might be able to tell you. Right now the baby is too tiny to see anything." I illustrate how small the foetus inside me is by placing the forefinger and thumb of my right hand close together, as an indication of how far across it is from head to toe. "I think he or she is about this big at the moment – too small for anyone to really tell what sex it is yet." I smile. "But don't worry, button; when we find out, you'll be the first to know."

Rebecca grins. "I'd better be," she says with a wink. "Don't you dare break that promise, okay?"

"We'll try not to," Warren says, before he draws Rebecca to him and hugs her gently. "Are you sure you're okay about this?" he asks uncertainly, using those uncanny powers of empathy (which I'm sure are a mutant talent he's told nobody else about) again.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine," Rebecca insists, offering him a small smile as proof. "Just a bit too much to take in all at once, that's all. Give me a couple of days to get used to the idea, and I should be fine." She laughs suddenly, her face lighting up. "I'm going to be somebody's big sister," she exclaims, in a slightly shell-shocked voice. "Oh, that kid is doomed."

That makes me laugh, and, as Rebecca draws away from her father, I say "I'm sure you'll be fine, Rebecca." I give her a hug of my own and whisper into her ear "I'm counting on you to be our best babysitter, after all."


	3. Chapter 3

My brother Brian and his wife Meggan greet me warmly as I open the door of the mansion, Brian kissing me gently on the cheek and embracing me with gusto. "Hello, butterfly," he says in an affectionate tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Apart from the morning sickness? Good, I suppose," I reply, enjoying the sensation of having my brother close by me again, "but I feel better now that I have you two here as well."

Brian laughs – and then gestures at my hair suddenly, as if he has been struck by something extremely important. "Wait a second… you haven't dyed your hair again. Are you feeling ill, Betsy?"

That amuses me – Brian never really liked my purple hair when I had it (either in my original body, or in Kwannon's), so you would think it would follow that he'd have been overjoyed to discover that I haven't been dyeing my hair at the moment. "No, I'm not feeling ill, Brian," I tell him, chuckling. "I just… fancied a change, that's all. After everything that's happened to me recently, I wanted to feel in control of myself again – and my hair was the easiest place to start, don't you think?"

"I… suppose so," Brian concedes, picking up his cases in his strong, muscular hands before he smiles broadly at me, as if he has just won a game of conkers. "It's good to see you again, butterfly."

"I second that," Meggan agrees, hugging me with the elegant grace that is so characteristic of her faerie race. "I can't believe I'm going to be an auntie!" She giggles girlishly. "I bet you can't believe I'm going to be an auntie, either."

I shake my head, after the meaning of Meggan's statement has made itself clear. "No, Meggan, I can't – I thought that the only babies in this family were going to be yours and Brian's. After what's happened to me and Warren, I don't think anybody would condemn us for thinking that we weren't going to have any children, do you?" Touching my belly reflexively, I smile and then beckon the two of them inside the house. "Come on – I'm sure you don't want to stand out there all day, do you?" Leading them through the doors, I guide them through the lobby and down the hall towards the rec. room, where I can already hear a group of the others watching television and playing table football. I can hear Bobby and Kurt's distinctive back-and-forth banter through the numerous sounds coming towards us down the corridor, and there is the distinctive sound of Logan's gruff voice coming from closer towards the doors of the room, but other than using my telepathy, I can't tell who else is also present. As we approach the doors, Brian steps around me and pulls one of them open so that Meggan and I can go inside before he does. "Why, thank you, Brian," I say, smiling at him in gratitude for his display of courtesy. "What brought that on? You never used to hold doors open for me."

Brian grins. "You never used to be pregnant, Betsy," he says with a delicious touch of brotherly love. "I think all of us have to start adjusting, don't you?"

"I suppose we do," I agree, and pass through the doors of the rec. room, into the small crowd of my fellow X-Men that are already inside. The TV is showing a baseball game, tiny figures that cause Logan to alternately hold his head in his hands, punch the air, or cry out with satisfaction. I sit down in the empty seat beside him and say "Hello, Logan. Enjoying yourself?"

Logan nods enthusiastically, then grins and drapes his arm around my shoulder, almost crushing me to him in a bear-hug of affection. "Lizzy!" he exclaims cheerfully. "Didn't know you liked baseball."

"I don't," I tell him with a wink, and then gesture to Brian and Meggan to sit down on the seats surrounding my own. "My guests and I needed to sit down, and these were the closest comfortable chairs." Logan raises his eyebrows and chuckles.

"Shoulda known that was too much to hope for," he says wistfully, before he nods towards Brian and Meggan. "Good to see ya, Cap – Meggan," he states, in one of his customary gruff, perfunctory greetings. Then he looks back at me and takes my hand in his own rough, callused fingers. "Like I told ya before, Betts – couldn't be happier for ya, kid." He pauses, and then squeezes my hand encouragingly, his brown eyes filling with an almost paternal affection. "An' I'll tell ya another thing, Lizzy – couldn't think of a better person for this kid to call its mother, either. Pity you couldn't find a better dad than the flyboy, though." I glare at him indignantly, and he laughs in his wild, untamed way. "Ah, you know I'm only kiddin', punkin," he says, winking at me as he brushes my hand with his blunt fingertips. "I'm sure Wings'll make a great daddy. He'll have me to answer to if he doesn't, after all." He ruffles my hair and grins again before kissing me on the cheek, his thick muttonchop whiskers tickling my skin. "I'll let ya catch up with Cap and Meg here before I bore you any more." His face brightens for a second, and he gestures out towards the rear garden of the mansion. "How 'bout we play some Frisbee later? You know I'd ask you to play football, but in your condition…"

I shake my head. "Oh, Logan, you don't have to wrap me up in cotton wool. But Frisbee sounds a lot less strenuous, so… why not?"

Logan's face lights up, and he claps me on the shoulder in a chummy sort of way. "Great!" he says cheerfully. "Don't tire yourself out talking, okay? I want a real challenge, like last time."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Logan, I'm not that pregnant yet. I can still beat you at anything you want to try me at, you know," I tell him, before he turns and leaves the rec. room, swigging from his half-full bottle of beer and singing a dirty limerick. Brian gestures after him with a cocked thumb and an expression of disbelief.

"I still can't believe he's your best friend," he says, incredulous. That makes me smile, and let out a small laugh.

"Yes, you wouldn't have guessed it from the way I've acted my entire life, would you, Brian?" I reply, holding my hands up in a display of mock-despair. "Besides which, he knows too many rude drinking songs for me to ignore him entirely."

Meggan smiles. "Every time I visit, I get reminded of why Brian had such an interesting childhood," she says, grinning. "I can't imagine living with you for eighteen years."

"Neither could you, could you, Brian?" I reply, nodding towards my brother, who has found a cushion to throw at me. It hits me on the arm and bounces onto the floor, where it sits forlornly until I pick it up and put it on my lap. Its golden frills run over the surface of my leather trousers and almost spill onto the fabric of the chair itself, the expensive fabric soft against my thighs and the slightly exposed skin of my navel.

"No, I couldn't," Brian tells me, and then looks at Meggan with puppy-dog eyes. "I had to put up with this every day, Meg – Betsy always found a way to drive me insane. Mostly she just stole my physics textbooks, but sometimes she'd put marmalade in my shoes, or change my shampoo for hair dye." He rolls his eyes. "I can remember having to go to school with blue hair once. I never heard the end of it from my teachers, and I didn't get much peace from my friends, either. Most of them still call me 'Bluey', thanks to her." He shoots me an evil glare, and then winks at me (a demonstration of the two sides of our relationship, I think). "But despite all that, she's still my sister, and I love her very much."

"How admirable," Meggan chuckles, before she kisses Brian on the cheek and digs at his ribs playfully. "Now I remember why I married you – you sweet, kind man, you."

"Don't over-do it," I tell her, my hands on my hips. "You'll swell that head of his more than it already is. I bet he hasn't told you about the time that he put a frog down my blouse, has he?"

A flash of amusement washes over Meggan's face, and her smile widens, as if she has just discovered some incredible, long-lived family secret. "No, he hasn't," she exclaims, raising her elegant eyebrows and pursing her lips jovially. "Care to explain, Brian?"

Brian rolls his eyes. "That? Oh, that was only because she put that frog in my bed in the first place. I was just… giving it back to her." He laughs. "You should have heard her scream." After a second or so, he clears his throat and sits forward in his seat, his expression becoming a little more serious. "I'm… really happy for you, Betsy. I really hope this goes smoothly – I know how much this means to you. It means a lot to me, too; I never really thought about what it would be like to be called 'Uncle Brian'. I suppose we'll find out together, shan't we?"

A grateful smile tugs at one corner of my mouth, and I nod in agreement, thankful that we have brought the conversation around to safer and more immediate matters. "I suppose we will, at that." I squeeze the cushion on my lap for a moment or two, glancing at the floor of the room as I do so. "My baby is very lucky to have you as an uncle, Brian," I say, softly. "You should be proud of what you've achieved." Glancing at Meggan, I automatically correct myself. "What you've both achieved."

"Thank you, Betsy," Meggan replies, folding her hands in her lap and intertwining her fingers. "That's very kind of you. So," and she smiles broadly, "have you found out what you're having yet?"

I shake my head. "No. It's still too early for that at this point." I rub my belly again, almost without thinking about it, and then blush a little self-consciously before I speak again. "Between you and me, Meggan, I'd quite like a little boy – although I can tell you right this moment that Warren will probably want to make him Warren Kenneth Worthington the Fourth, and I don't want that; not especially, anyway. I really don't want my boy to be called 'Junior' all the time – I have visions of the poor child being abused at school for having Roman numerals stuck onto the end of his name."

"Really?" Meggan seems surprised at my decision, despite my explanation. "So what else would you want to call your son?"

"Well," I begin, "I quite like the names David, Mark and Robert, actually. I also thought about Henry, too – naming my boy after Hank would be a nice way of saying 'thank you' to him, don't you think?"

Meggan's expression softens, and she chuckles with delight, before she lays a long-fingered hand on my arm and squeezes it gently. "You're so sentimental under that tough exterior, Betsy," she says, smiling in amusement. "Don't worry, though – I won't tell anyone." Stifling her giggles, she continues "So what would you call the baby if it's a girl?"

"Sarah," I say instantly. "Don't ask me why – I think I've always just had a soft spot for that name." Pausing, I mull over other options for a moment or two and then continue "Well, either that, or Sophie… although I quite like the sound of Fiona, as well."

Just as I'm about to continue, Bobby appears from around the pool table, where he was playing pool with Joseph (who is a clear novice where games are concerned, if his poor performance was anything to go by). "Hiya, Betts," he says, and then slumps bonelessly down into the seat beside me. His Def Leppard t-shirt and black jeans crumple as he causes the seat's cushion to wheeze in protest at his descending weight, and Bobby then shifts slightly so that he is not slumping, his body finally coming level with mine. Slinging an arm along the back of the chair, he says "Congratulations on the good news, by the way. Hank told me about it the other day, and I didn't get the chance to tell you how cool I thought it was until now." Looking at Brian and Meggan, he continues "You guys must be thrilled, too; I bet you were head over heels when you heard the news, right?"

"Yes, Bobby, we were," Meggan tells him, leaning forward to take his hand in a gesture of gratitude. "Brian and I were so pleased to hear that Betsy and Warren were going to be parents – it's been too long since the Braddocks have had any real good fortune, really. Most of what happens to my husband and his sister seems to involve fist-fights, power-changes and brooding."

"Oh my," Bobby says, almost on cue. "Lions and tigers and bears, eat your heart out…" Meggan giggles and grins at that, recognising the reference immediately (which for a faerie is quite a feat, considering they often don't follow mortal culture as closely as perhaps they ought to).

"Thank you for asking," she says, her elfish features lighting up – almost literally, in fact. "So does that make you a Munchkin, or should I start calling you Dorothy?"

"Not a problem," Bobby replies, shrugging his shoulders slightly before he sits forward in his seat and gestures at me with one hand. "But I'd prefer being called a Munchkin, if it's all the same to you. I don't turn out well if I wear dresses." He swallows a small laugh before composing himself. "It's funny, you know? I always thought Scott and Jean would be the first to have kids – yeah, yeah, I know Scott's already had a son, but not with Jean. And all those alternate-future kids don't count either." He pauses to mutter something about the Summers family tree confusing even God, and then raises his voice again. "What I was trying to say was that I never thought you and Warren would have kids – not now, anyway." He laughs slightly awkwardly, and one side of his mouth jerks up in a hesitant smile. "Then again, like I said, I didn't see anybody but Scott and Jean raising kids here. Sure as heck wouldn't be me filling the place with rugrats. Barely a grown-up myself. I mean, I'm an adult, but I'm not a grown-up -"

"Betsy," Meggan exclaims, swiftly cutting Bobby's awkward babbling in half, "if you ever need a nanny…"

"You'll have to take a number, I'm afraid," I tell her with a smile. "Most of the people here in the mansion are fighting tooth and nail to get first dibs on my child when he or she is born – Jean wants to take him or her out for walks in the park, and Ororo's been planning activity days for the baby since she first found out I was pregnant, after all." I pause, patting my stomach lightly with one hand. "Rogue has been begging me to let her take him or her kite-flying, too. And it's not just the girls, either – Remy wants to teach it how to cook, Hank wants to help it learn to hang from the ceiling by its toes, Scott wants to show it how to read, and the Professor wants to help it learn to paint."

Meggan gives me a sceptical look. "The Professor wants to help it learn to paint?"

"I know," I say, raising my eyebrows. "I couldn't believe it at first, either, but Charles seems quite willing to get his hands dirty." Holding my hand up to one side of my mouth, as speaking with the utmost secrecy, I continue "Personally, I think he likes the idea of having a child around so he can feel like the schoolteacher he used to be. I really think he misses being able to hand out demerits and class credits – once a headmaster, always a headmaster, after all. And it's not just him who's getting a dose of the soft touches, you know – Logan actually offered to carve me a rattle yesterday."

Brian gawps stupidly. "Oh, now I've heard everything. Logan said that?"

"He did. I actually checked to see if he was being mind-controlled, but apparently not." I shrug, indicating that I was utterly mystified by the whole situation. "Apparently having a new baby around does more strange things to people's minds than any evil telepath. I told Logan I'd think about it, but I can't really see him taking no for an answer…"

"I don't suppose he would," Meggan admits, evidently still a little thrown. "Whatever happens, Betsy, I think the next few months are going to be very… interesting, to say the least."

"Absolutely," I agree. "I think I'll need you two to help me stay sane…"


	4. Chapter 4

"I can feel the baby moving, Warren," I say, looking across at my husband from my side of the bed. Guiding his hand gently towards the place where I can feel my child kicking, I can feel his sense of wonder as his hand brushes against my skin. His eyes light up as he feels the tiny feet of my baby pushing against the inside of my belly, and his thoughts reflect his pride and his pleasure at being able to be a part of what's happening right at this moment.

"Energetic little thing, isn't it?" he says in a tone laced with hushed wonder, his blue fingers running gingerly over the slightly distended surface of my stomach (one of the disadvantages of leaving morning sickness behind – along with the rest of my first trimester – is the fact that I am slowly, and inexorably, moving towards having what can kindly be described as a beached-whale figure. I'm not quite there yet, but I don't think it will be too long before that happens…). "If it keeps this up, I think teaching the kid how to play baseball ought to be a lot of fun, don't you?"

I raise my eyebrows and regard Warren with a somewhat amused air. "And what if the baby's a girl, Warren? Or hadn't that notion occurred to you?"

"Hey, if the kid's a girl, I'll teach her to play ball anyway. Equal opportunities all the way, right?" Warren chuckles. "I'm sure I can turn any little girl into a pro ball-player with a few years' practice, after all."

"Touché," I reply, a little taken aback by my husband's attitude. He laughs at my reaction, his blue eyes glistening in the morning's half-light, and then he lies flat against the head-board of our bed, folding his arms behind his head and smiling contentedly.

"I like surprising you, Betsy," he says in triumph. "Proves to me that you and I have a relatively normal relationship, I guess." He shrugs, momentarily, and then smiles again, a little more thoughtfully this time. "Well, what passes for a relatively normal relationship around this place, anyway. At least you and I haven't been replaced by robots or aliens or snake-men from the planet Hallelujah…"

That makes me laugh as a flash of memory sparks in my mind, and ignites a recollection of a past event that still holds a special place in my heart, even today. "Didn't we have this conversation on our first date, Warren?" I ask him, knowing the answer even before the words are fully formed. Warren's expression indicates he knows precisely what I'm referring to, and he gestures towards the window of our room with an extended thumb.

"You want to relive that all the way?" he asks, a large grin swathing his face like a brightly coloured flag. "I'm sure we'll be allowed back into that restaurant after all this time, don't you?" His grin widens, and he winks at me. "Go on, Betsy. Let's make it my treat for tonight." He thumbs towards the dark jacket that he has folded over the chair at his bedside, and says "I'll bet you a hundred bucks my wallet wants some release, after all."

"Now I remember why I married you, you generous hunk of man, you," I tell him, pushing out my lips in a slight pout and running my hands through his hair, before kissing him tenderly on the mouth. "Just don't ask me to drink as much as I did then – I have baby to think about now, after all, and I don't think they'd react well to that much white wine." Falling silent for a second, I glance towards the door of our room and bite my lip, as if I have suddenly had a heavy weight placed on my shoulders. "Which reminds me, Warren – I have to have this week's check-up and ultrasound scan today. Hank asked me last time if I was ready to know what sex the baby was, and I said that I wanted to wait until today, so that you could be here." Pausing, I look back at Warren and slip my hand into his palm, once again forging a physical bond between us – a bond that has been so reassuring to me in the past few months. "That is… unless you'd rather be surprised."

Warren raises his eyebrows and exhales gently before replying in a calm and focused tone. "I don't like surprises," he says firmly. "I'd like to be there – for as long as Hank thinks I'm not getting in the way, anyway." He brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it resolutely. "Should give me five minutes, at least, right?" Sitting up and flipping his side of the covers off his legs, he plants both his feet firmly on the floor of our bedroom and stands to his full height, stretching and easing out some lingering tension in his body. Then, he crosses the carpet to his chest of drawers and picks out a pair of his favourite socks. Turning back to me and waggling them between thumb and forefinger, he says "I think a special occasion like this calls for my Hong Kong Phooey socks, don't you?"

"Oh, absolutely," I agree, trying to stifle a giggle. "I don't think anything else will do." Pushing my side of the covers away, I stand as well, feeling my child protest a little at being moved so abruptly (even at this stage in its life, it seems my baby has developed a keen sense of what it does and doesn't like. I can occasionally sense its thoughts expressing fuzzy, unfocused distaste at overly-fast movement, or contentment when the two of us are at rest), my nightshirt pulling slightly more taut over my stomach than I'd like it to. Stretching, I feel the warmth of the early morning sun, as it flows through our room's curtains like liquid gold. I close my eyes and bask in its refreshing glow, turning a slow circle on the spot, my arms outstretched and my head tipped back, my hair cascading down my back in waves. It feels so needlessly extravagant to do such a thing, but at this moment in time, I couldn't care less. A laugh – a happy, carefree laugh, something that's a lot rarer than I'd like it to be – erupts from my throat, and I raise my hands to my head, sweeping my fingers through my blonde locks to ease out the night's disarray. A patina of sleep still clings insistently to the inside of my head, and I rub my eyes a little to dislodge it, feeling energy flowing slowly into my limbs and my brain. As I do so, my hair falls down around my face, framing my eyes in two lengthy blonde curtains – which makes Warren stop in his tracks, just as he is picking his shower robe off its hook.

"If I had a camera," he says in a mock-reverent tone, "I'd take a picture of you right now." He reinforces that idea by forming a square with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and framing my face inside it. "I wouldn't want anybody else to miss something this cute, after all."

"I'm sure you wouldn't, Warren," I reply, a little self-consciously, my cheeks flushing crimson at the very thought, "but however would you get the film developed with your hands tied to your wing-muscles?"

Warren rolls the notion around in his head for a second or two, flashes of perceived excruciating pain pattering against the surface of my mind, and then he shrugs. "Okay, honey – have it your way. This time." Then he points a cocked index finger at me as if it is the barrel of a gun. "The next time I want to take a picture like that, I just won't tell you."

I shake my head, a slow smile creeping across my lips, and then I slide myself into Warren's arms, my hands folding themselves around his waist as far as they will go and my swollen belly pushing against his muscular stomach. "I hate you," I whisper in his ear, before trailing kisses down his cheek and across his lips.

"I know. I hate you too," Warren laughs, and returns my kisses before he shrugs himself into his robe, his wings slipping through the special slits over his shoulder blades, and the soft towelling of the robe falling down to his ankles. "I'm going to go for a shower now," he says quietly, thumbing towards the door with his left hand. "I'll try not to use up all the hot water before you can get in; I don't want our kid freezing to death in there, after all."

"Your concern for the two of us is touching," I say, raising an eyebrow. "What about your wife? I don't really want to end up with icicles hanging off my earlobes either, but do I get a whisper of concern from you? I don't think so." Standing with my hands on my hips, I affect an air of indignation and annoyance for a moment or two, my chin pushed out and my eyes twin chunks of cold diamond. Then my expression softens and I continue "Thank you, Warren. Could you stay near the shower until I'm finished? I don't really want to slip and fall – not with baby this developed, anyway."

Warren nods. "Sure, Betsy; I know the drill. You just holler when you're done, and we'll see what I can do."

"You're a star, darling. That makes both of us feel a lot more secure," I tell him as I pat my abdomen with one hand, in an almost whimsical fashion. "Come on – we'd better get that bathroom claimed between the two of us, before Remy or Bobby decides to set up home in there for the next half an hour…"

"There you go, sweetheart. No slip-ups," Warren says, slipping a bare arm around my waist as I step out of the shower, so as to make sure that I don't lose my footing on the tiled floor of the bathroom. "Satisfaction guaranteed."

"I suppose I had better take what I can get," I tell him, finding my robe with one hand and then slipping it around my shoulders, tying the cord around my bump with a slight amount of difficulty (at this point, it's getting hard to find enough spare cord to tie knots with. I dread to think what it'll be like when I'm nearing full-term…). "I don't get much satisfaction anywhere else, after all."

"You liar – I don't think you've ever been more satisfied than when you've been with me," Warren laughs, giving me a knowing look through his gorgeous, half-lidded azure eyes. He nuzzles my neck, finding the pulse of life at my throat with his mouth, and runs his fingers through my wet hair, almost effortlessly soothing out most of the tangles and knots that still linger there. "What else do you want me to do, lay a carpet of feathers for you?"

"That would be nice," I say. "Thank you, Warren. Shall I pluck your wings, or will you do it yourself?"

"Oh, go pluck yourself," Warren retorts, a large grin spreading across his face before he flushes in embarrassment as I give him my best disdainful expression, and says "Hey, it was the best I could come up with at short notice – I'm not Bobby, you know."

"And we're all very grateful for that. Having two Bobbies around would be unbearable." Finding a comb at the side of the basin, I start to give more of a sense of order to my hair, teasing out a couple of left-over knots and rinsing the comb of some remaining drops of conditioner. "I don't think we'd ever get any peace."

"I hear that," Warren agrees, tying a towel around his waist and draping his towel around his neck, before taking the comb from my hand and adjusting his damp hair, so that it no longer looks like a wet thatch of broken straw, and instead has the sense of order that Warren demands of everything in his life, including himself (and me, sometimes… but I've forgiven him for that. Mostly). He wipes the comb dry and then puts it back in its sculpted holder beside the basin, the grinning visage of Mickey Mouse emblazoned on the cup's side doing nothing to acknowledge him as he does so. Then, he moves ahead of me so that he can hold the door open, allowing me to pass through into the corridor. Downstairs, I can hear the clamour of the others as they all pile into the kitchen to get their breakfasts over and done with (before they can fight all over again for the right to use the bathroom before anybody else, naturally), and I can hear the clatter of dishes and plates being moved at high speed from the sink and the cupboards where the cutlery is usually kept. Warren smiles as he hears it as well, and sighs. "Just another day in paradise…" he muses cheerfully, before walking across the landing towards the door of our room and holding it open for me.

"Isn't it wonderful?" I say, revelling in the positive emotions that I can sense from downstairs. The carpet feels warm beneath my feet as I walk at a leisurely pace across it, the bright shafts of sunlight coming in from the skylight set into the roof heating the fabric to a pleasant temperature – one that almost makes me reluctant to stray too far from where I'm standing, in fact. To my left, I can hear a commotion from below as Bobby and Emma run frantically towards the stairs, eager to get into the bathroom before anybody else, their thoughts betraying their intentions. "The hot water's almost used up. You'll have to take turns," I call to them without turning my head, instantly feeling a feeling of crushing disappointment from Bobby and a sense of seething indignation from Emma.

Yes, I know it was mean, but I'm feeling particularly naughty this morning…

When Warren and I have closed the door of our bedroom behind us, I untie the cords of my robe, hanging it back on the leftmost of the hooks that have been screwed onto the door's inner surface, and quickly find a bra and some panties – as well as some more appropriate clothing – after towelling myself off a little more. The added pressures of my bump have meant that I can't wear certain items of clothing for the moment, so I've taken to wearing trousers with elastic waistbands and tops that can also stretch accordingly. I don't particularly want to start wearing tent-like maternity dresses, since I remember thinking (when I was about seven or eight, and just starting to realise where babies came from) that nobody would ever get me into one of those – not for love nor money – and I intend to keep that promise to myself, no matter what the others may think.

Rummaging around in my chest of drawers with both hands, I manage to find an acceptable pair of trousers and a large t-shirt that can easily accommodate my expanding figure. Emblazoned on the front of it is a picture of Garfield slumped motionless on his belly, with the caption "I'm tired of being bored. I think I'll make a lateral move to self-pity" traced below his pudgy orange and black bulk in thin black letters. Slipping it over my head, I slide both arms into the t-shirt's sleeves and admire myself in the mirror for a moment or so, before tying my hair back with a brightly tiger-striped purple-and-black hairband. Then, I pull the loose trousers up around my waist, feeling the elastic in the waistband pinch a little as it settles around my bump, before both it and I adjust. Sitting down on our bed, I put on a pair of my low-heeled trainers and tie the laces tightly, wriggling my toes inside the shoes to help get my feet comfortable. When I'm satisfied that I will be able to walk properly, I stand and test them out with a few experimental steps, feeling the soles give slightly under my weight, and then pace towards the door. Turning back towards Warren, who has dressed himself in a loose red shirt and some designer jeans, along with some pristine boots, I nod towards the door.

"Ready to enter the lion's den?" I ask him nonchalantly.

"As I'll ever be," Warren says with not a little amount of trepidation.

Downstairs, the kitchen is a picture of perfectly-refined chaos. Hank is flipping pieces of buttered toast up into the air and catching them in his fanged jaws as they fall, muttering to himself about how to get a piece to land butter-side-up, Rogue is shouting at Bobby for "accidentally" icing up her cereal, and Remy is trying, evidently without much success, to scrape out the remains of an omelette from the pan he was apparently cooking with a few moments before.

However, all of that stops as Warren and I walk into the kitchen, and all eyes focus on me. I must admit, for a girl who was always the centre of whatever she involved herself in, whether it was as a child, a model, or a special agent of STRIKE, all this attention makes me a little bemused, but also a little flattered – I don't consider all of the people living under this roof my friends (not in the same way that I consider Logan and Warren my friends, anyway), but they are all still fascinated by the baby growing within me. In a way, my unborn child has served as a way to unify this house regardless of petty differences and disagreements, and somehow, I find that gratifying.

"Betsy!" Hank exclaims. "How are you feeling this felicitous morn?"

"Good enough, I suppose," I say, finding myself a bowl and pouring myself a healthy amount of corn flakes, before dousing them in milk and taking a mouthful. "Didn't sleep very well, but that's to be expected."

"I suppose it is," Hank ponders. "You will show up hale and hearty for your check-up this morning, I trust?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Doc," Warren answers for me, while I'm taking another decidedly un-ladylike slurp from my spoon. Hank draws his lips back over his teeth in a satisfied grin, and picks up his edition of the New York Times.

"Good," he says, while he is perusing the story on the front page. "I'll see you at eleven o'clock, then." Pushing his glasses up his nose with a clawed forefinger, he quickly becomes absorbed in the prose of the report, and his thoughts show that he is completely oblivious to everything except the perceived misdeeds of the President. I decide to leave him to it, and dip my spoon back into my bowl to capture another load of milk and cornflakes. I think my appetite is really starting to get ahead of me...

* * *

 

Eleven o'clock arrives more quickly than I'd expected, and before long I am lying on the long bed in the med-lab, my t-shirt pulled up over my bump and Hank poised over me with a tub of jelly, which he is smearing on my belly with three fingers. Alongside the bed are Warren, Brian and Meggan (the latter two having managed to rouse themselves from a fitful slumber, after a night of "interpretative theatre" in the Village). The cold jelly makes me shiver slightly, despite my being used to it at this point (without it, the hand-held ultrasound unit would not be able to move so fluidly across my belly, in order to get a decent, smooth picture feed).

"You know, Elisabeth, we could always use the Shi'Ar scanner if you wanted," Hank suggests, somewhat redundantly.

"No," I say, determination heavy in my voice. "I want this to be as normal as possible. If you want to use the scanner after we do this, then that's fine, but… just let me have this for now, please, Hank?"

"Very well," Hank relents. "What my favourite patient wants, my favourite patient gets, I suppose. We can forge ahead with the scanner once this is finished; that will give us a more detailed read-out of what the baby is doing in there – it will even, I would wager, give us a fairly accurate impression of which book the baby is reading at the moment."

"If the baby's anything like Warren, it'll be reading a comic book," I murmur, feeling the ultrasound unit slip over the swollen curves of my stomach, the cold gel easily facilitating its movement. "Or the Wall Street Journal."

"Nice save," Warren says wryly, his hand firmly ensconced in my palm. "If you'd said anything else, I'd have divorced you right there."

Before I can say anything in response, Brian points to the image of my child on the ultrasound's display and says "What's that?"

"That, good Captain, is the baby's spine and its lower chest," Hank replies calmly, still swirling the ultrasound unit around on my stomach so that I can get a full picture of what my baby will look like. "And if you look here –" and he points to the image of the lower half of the baby's body "– you can see what sex the child will be." Glancing at Warren and me, he says "Would you like to know now? I'll understand if you've changed your mind."

"Anybody object to knowing?" Warren asks out loud.

After a few moments, Hank nods, and says "Very well. Betsy, you and Warren will soon be parents, and Brian and Meggan the uncle and aunt, of a happy, healthy baby boy."

"A… boy?" Warren says, sounding slightly shell-shocked. "We're having a boy?"

"Undoubtedly," Hank tells him, adjusting a few of the controls on the ultrasound's console. "Better start thinking of those masculine names, old buddy."

Warren turns away from Hank, and his eyes rise to meet my gaze. Inside them I can see such an intense gratitude and relief that it seems impossible to fathom, before he hugs me to him and kisses me ecstatically on the cheek. "We have a son," he whispers to me, his voice small and full of wonder. "We have a son."

It's at that point that I feel my brother and sister-in-law begin to quietly move towards the door of the med-lab, as if they want to give Warren and me some space. Reaching out with both of my hands, I call out to them "Stay. Please stay." For a moment or so, I can feel their indecision, but in a moment or so they return to their seats, each of them taking one of my hands and squeezing gently.

With my family together like this, even for only an instant, the world suddenly seems a smaller place, and for once I'm grateful for that.


	5. Chapter 5

Warren and I are sitting in the garden of the mansion, the afternoon sun warm against my back, and the peaceful sound of birdsong pattering against my ears. The sky is filled with soft, pale clouds that scud silently across its uniform blue, their fluffy surfaces uniformly white, although there is the faint suggestion that there perhaps might be a rainstorm later, given their size. My husband and I don't take much notice of that – at the moment, all we are interested in are more pressing human concerns that affect the two of us more than anybody else in the mansion.

"So… you think we ought to start thinking of names for our new baby boy?" Warren asks, matter-of-factly. "Don't want the little fella to go nameless for the rest of his life, do we?"

That sets my teeth on edge, just a little. I can smell what is coming, and it makes me uneasy despite myself. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and prickling defensively, as if Warren's words are extended blades that might pierce my skin at any moment. Ridiculous, perhaps, but I've learned never to distrust my instincts – they've saved my life on more than one occasion (and frankly, after ignoring the instinct to run from Sabretooth, I've decided that perhaps my instincts know best). "And what precisely did you have in mind, Warren?" I ask him, softly.

Scratching his ear and exhaling softly, Warren shifts in his seat and adjusts his posture, as if he is suddenly uncomfortable. "Well… I was kinda hoping to give him the name Warren somewhere," he says, shrugging. "It was my father's name, and my grandfather's before that – I just want the little guy to be one of the family, you know?" He smiles bashfully. "One of the good guys, anyway."

"Wouldn't he be a member of the family anyway, Warren?" I say, my hands clutching at each other guiltily. I don't want to start an argument, but the way I feel about this, I don't really see any other course of action, and that pains me greatly. "Would he really have to have your name to fit in?"

Slightly taken aback, Warren's excitement stalls, and he tilts his head in confusion. "I don't know what you mean, Betsy –" he begins, an almost visible fog of puzzlement settling around his mind. He can obviously feel my mounting anger and annoyance at what he's suggesting, but he doesn't know why I'm feeling like this. I owe it to him to explain that, at least.

"I knew you'd do this, Warren," I say, perhaps a little too harshly, exasperation clearly evident in my voice. "I won't have our son become just another notch on your family's totem pole. I don't want him to be 'Junior' for the rest of his life – I want him to be his own person."

Warren draws back from me defensively, holding his hands up in front of his body, as if he is expecting me to strike out at him at any moment. "I know that, Betsy, and I agree – I don't want our kid to be just a set of numbers either, but I want to preserve this tradition, in at least some way; it's the only thing worth a damn that I've got left of my mom and dad. Is it so bad to want to keep in touch with them this way?"

Sighing, I fold my hands over my outstretched right knee and drop my head down for a moment or two, closing my eyes and feeling the pulsing ache that fills my skull echo hollowly against the inside of my eyelids. "No, Warren. I know what you're saying, and I appreciate your wanting to remember your parents that way, but all I really want is for my son to have a name that's unique, so that he knows he was special to us both, and not just to the Worthington family history."

"Well, what did you have in mind?" Warren asks me, his tone tightening a little as he folds his arms across his muscular chest. He flexes his wings a little, to catch the afternoon sun, and a few loose feathers flutter down around him, settling silently on the grass around us. Warren regards one or two of them with a disdainful eye, and then turns his attention back towards me. "Maybe we can work something else out, huh?"

I bite my lip, tasting a slight metallic tang on the tip of my tongue as my teeth accidentally cut through my skin. "I… I wanted… to give him the name Douglas," I say, slowly and deliberately – at which point, Warren's expression changes, darkening and taking on a pained look. In the deep blue pools of his eyes, I can see and feel a sense that he has been wronged, somehow, and that sensation is confirmed by his next words to me.

"I see," he says, touching the bridge of his nose with two fingertips. "Why does Doug have preference over my father, Betsy? They're both dead, right? What makes Doug better than my dad?" He snorts in disgust and turns away from me, his teeth pressing hard together and the muscles of his jaw clenched so tightly that I can almost feel the tension in them myself.

"Nothing, Warren," I tell him calmly, nevertheless feeling my grip on the situation slipping away from me with every word that leaves my lips. "Neither of them are better than the other – I'm not saying that our son can't have your name; not at all. I just don't want him to feel like he's just the next thing off a production line."

"Why that name, then?" Warren asks, quite reasonably, as he kneads at his temples with his fingertips. I can feel a renewed headache building at the front of his skull, and I'm not entirely sure whether it originated in his head or in mine; both of us seem stressed enough to hurt each other involuntarily, after all. Seemingly aware of this fact as well, Warren takes a deep breath before he asks again "Why Doug?"

"Because Doug is… was… my best friend. To give my son his name would be to honour him in my own little way – just like naming our boy 'Warren' would be honouring your father." Warren's headache adds to my own now, causing me to pause for breath and close my eyes momentarily. "I think I should make myself a little clearer, Warren; I don't… I don't just want our son to be 'Douglas Worthington'. I just want that name on his birth certificate somewhere."

"So at the moment we have a son with two hand-me-down names, and no original one for himself, right?" Warren says rhetorically, his words still sounding a little sharp. "Any ideas how we're going to fix that? Or are we just going to give this kid those two names and be done with it?"

"I hope not," I sigh, running my hands through my hair in exasperation. "I told Brian and Meggan that I liked the names David, Mark and Robert, and I also thought Peter is a nice name. What about you?"

"I don't know…" Warren exclaims, doubtfully. "I kinda like Max, myself." That suggestion brings an involuntary grimace to my face, which Warren notices all-too-well. He raises his eyebrows, and pushes himself off the bench we are sitting on with one hand. "I think we both need some more time to think this over properly, don't you?" he says, his voice seeming small, sad. "Making faces and screaming at each other isn't the best way to get this worked out." He gestures over to the edge of the grounds with one blue-fingered hand, and continues "I'm going to go for a walk. I'll see you later, Betsy."

And with that, he stalks off, frustration and irritation cocooning him as he walks away.

To be fair to him, though, we are both as on-edge as each other, and I'm just as frustrated and annoyed as he is – although I'm more annoyed with myself for being so pig-headed and tactless (which is quite a feat for a telepath, seeing as we're supposed to know other people's minds as intimately as we know our own – or at least that's the theory, anyway), than with him for wanting to give our son the Worthington family name.

Sighing, I push myself arduously to my feet and begin walking as quickly as I can back to the mansion, feeling my baby kick despondently inside me, and feeling the sunshine's warmth against my bare arms. A slight breeze starts up for a moment or two, and the hairs on the back of my neck automatically stand up in response, like soldiers on parade. Raising my eyes to the sky, I smile weakly at its pale blue canvas, and then resume my trek towards the back door of the mansion.

The mansion is quiet, its old oak passageways deserted and home to little more than the dust motes floating in the lancing beams of sunlight flowing in through the evenly-spaced windows. Most of the other X-Men are either outside playing baseball or visiting Harry's Hideaway (a pleasure for all of us at the worst of times), and there are only a few of us left at home, not including Warren and myself. However, the person that I wanted to talk to is still here, which gives me cause for celebration, however muted. Raising my hand to the door of the room that I've stopped outside, I call softly "Rebecca? It's Mum. Can I come in?"

There follows a moment or two of muffled commotion behind the door's oak-panelled surface (as Rebecca and Sam – who I'd sensed was inside her room with her from halfway down the hall – try to contain their shock and fluster at hearing the sound of my voice), before Rebecca says "Sure – come on in, Mum."

"Are you sure you're decent?" I ask her in a slightly more cheerful tone, feeling my spirits rise almost automatically now that I'm closer to my daughter. There follows a moment or two of silence – during which I can feel Rebecca's embarrassment flowing through the door as if it isn't even there – before Rebecca speaks again.

"Yes, Mum, I'm decent." I can picture her rolling her eyes as she says the words, anxious not to look more humiliated than she thinks she has been already. Taking a deep breath, I close my hand on the rounded handle of the door, twist it a half-turn and step inside Rebecca's room. Once I'm past the threshold I can see that she and Sam have purposefully moved themselves onto Rebecca's futon, which has been hurriedly arranged into a seat, a blanket and a flexible mattress providing soft cover for the green-painted wooden frame. The chair in the opposite corner of the room has had an extra cushion hastily thrown onto it, and Rebecca helps me to sit down (quite unnecessarily, really, but it's nice to know that she's willing to do it now, and not just when it'll be absolutely essential – or at least, when I let everyone think it's absolutely essential), letting me find the most comfortable sitting posture at my own leisure. It takes a little while, but between my son and me, we manage to arrange ourselves so that both of us are able to rest a touch more easily. When I have settled myself, Rebecca notices the vaguely haunted look that apparently is still flitting across my face, and her expression changes to match, her pretty features contorting beneath her twin curtains of pale blonde hair. "Are… you okay, Mum?" she asks, hesitantly, even as she links her mind with mine in order to fully appreciate our conversation.

Wrapping my fingers around the swell of my belly, I sigh miserably. "No, sweetheart, I'm not okay. Your father and I are having a… disagreement… about what your little brother's name is going to be."

Rebecca raises her eyebrows in comprehension, and looks down at her linked hands for a moment or two. "Oh. I see." She has made no secret of her misgivings with the idea of having a new baby in the mansion (she has repeatedly insisted that Warren and I move away from the mansion, to Warren's Rocky Mountain aerie – partly for altruistic reasons, and partly, I think, because she feels that her uniqueness is being usurped by this new arrival. Typical first-child worries, according to Hank), but I think she wants to be as accommodating as she can right at this moment. Rebecca exhales quietly, before saying "Why did you come here, then? Shouldn't you be talking to him?"

I sigh, rubbing at my forehead and once again bemoaning my decision to steer clear of painkillers as much as possible. "Oh, your father and I decided between us that we weren't going to get anywhere by having a shouting match. We needed time to cool off, so… I thought I would come and talk to you. You're always a calming influence, after all." I flash my daughter a small smile, which she returns with a slight amount of trepidation.

"Do you want me to leave, Mrs Worthington, ma'am?" Sam says abruptly. "I don't want to be a third wheel – if you want to speak to your daughter alone, then I'll leave right now." And then, as if to reinforce that statement, he gets up from the futon and takes a couple of resolute steps towards the door.

"You can stay if you like, Sam," I tell him quietly, touching one of his strong hands with my fingertips. "I think having a neutral party here might actually be a good thing."

"Well, okay, ma'am." Sam looks deeply unconvinced, but he returns to his seat anyway. "If you think it'll do you some good, then I'll sit tight." He takes the opportunity to put his arm around Rebecca's shoulder, and then murmurs a question of whether or not Rebecca is okay with the arrangement into my daughter's ear. If I weren't so on edge, I'd be simultaneously pleased and flattered at how respectful Sam is, both to myself and to Rebecca.

When the two of them have settled again, Rebecca asks "So why are you and Dad arguing about the baby's name?"

Sighing again, I rub my temples with my fingertips. "This is going to sound silly, but –"

"Try me," Rebecca says, a little curtly. "After living in this house for as long as I have, nothing sounds silly any more." She laughs, a sheepish look crossing her beautiful face. "I mean, God… just look at what you, Dad and I have had to deal with. After that, I don't think anything could be any worse."

That makes me smile. "I suppose it couldn't, could it?"

"See?" Rebecca laughs. "Bet you Uncle Scott and Aunt Jean would say the exact same thing, right?" When I nod, my daughter grins and continues "So come on. Spill it, Mum." She reaches forwards and links hands with me, her soft touch inherently reassuring, somehow. "I won't tell, I promise." She winks, the low light in the room gleaming off the spotless enamel of her teeth.

Despite her assumed cheerful manner, her eyes are filled with concern – she knows I can tell she's worried, which is why she's trying to look unflustered. Rebecca has her faults, like anybody, but her positive qualities more than make up for that.

And right now, that's more help than anything she could say.

Taking a deep breath, I tell her "Your father and I both want to give your little brother a name that's special to us individually – Warren wants to give him the name Warren, like his father and grandfather before him, and I want to give him the name Doug, like… an old friend."

Rebecca's eyes suddenly roll up into her head, and she mumbles to herself in incomprehensible tones. I can sense reams of information passing through her mind at incalculable speed, rolling over the surface of her optic nerve like a computer read-out, until she finds what she wants – almost like a librarian rifling through drawers full of filing records.

"Are you talking about Doug… Ramsey?" she asks hesitantly. I nod without saying a word, and Rebecca immediately pulls her mouth into a thin, regretful line. "I thought so," she says in a soft voice. "Sometimes I hate having all this information in my head."

"I remember Doug," Sam says quietly, sadness without measure washing across the surface of his mind. "He was a good kid – I think he'd be honoured to have your son named after him, ma'am. He loved you a lot."

"You could tell?" I ask, surprised that Doug would have opened up about something like that to anybody – given that I had to find out that he was in love with me through his thoughts, and then only when he was trying to stop me from killing him (mind control seems to attract me like a moth to a flame, apparently), it strikes me as unlikely that he would have told anyone else. "I mean, he told you about his feelings for me?"

Sam smiles modestly, and chuckles. "Ma'am, it was obvious from the moment you guys met that he had a thing for you. The shaking hands, the red face, the stutter… oh, he had it bad for you, ma'am. Didn't have to be no fancy mind-reader to see that." He laughs again, and strokes his cleanly-shaven chin once, a reflective expression crossing his handsome, tanned face at the thought of his old friend. "Kid was hopeless with women; I guess girl-talk was the one language he couldn't figure out – and that was probably why they loved him so much." He lowers his eyes and touches their inner corners with the tips of a finger and thumb. "I miss him, you know."

"I know." I reach across the divide between us to take a hold of his hand, and he grips my fingers tightly, as if we can share our mutual pain through that contact. "I know." I give him a small smile, and squeeze his fingers gently. There is a moment or two of silence, before Rebecca scratches at the nape of her neck and exhales gently.

"So," she says (a little uncertainly, as if she is afraid to break the moment of quiet), "you want some alternative names." She grins suddenly, as an amusing thought strikes her. "If I suggested the name 'Nathan', would one of you shoot me?"

"Without hesitation," I reply, laughing despite myself. "And I'd borrow one of your brother's guns to do it, too."

"Good," Rebecca says resolutely. "I'd hate to have another brother with that name." She chuckles to herself quietly, shaking her head. "I quite like the name 'Thomas', actually." She taps the book on her bedside table – a half-finished copy of Huckleberry Finn – and adds "Blame Hank for this. I think he was trying to tear me away from re-runs of Buffy The Vampire Slayer."

"As well he should," I tell her, wagging my finger. "You'll make your eyes go square if you sit in front of that screen for much longer."

"I remember my momma tellin' me that TV was bad for my eyes when I was a little kid," Sam laughs. "Good to see you're pickin' up on the finer points of bein' a momma already, ma'am. Make sure you make her eat her vegetables, though – last time I took her out for dinner, she didn't eat anything green. She likes her meat too much, I reckon."

Rebecca shoots Sam an evil look. "I asked you not to tell Mum about that," she says indignantly, folding her arms and glaring at him. "You promised."

"No, I said I'd take that under advisement," Sam counters, trying his best to look as innocent as possible, even though it's obvious that he is guilty as sin. "I thought about it, and I think it's better for your health if you eat your greens – they're good for ya. Momma always made me eat every last lima bean, after all, even though I hated 'em."

"Thanks for nothing, Sam," Rebecca replies acidly, before she gives me a scalding glare, her scarlet eyes shining and one finger pointed towards me like warning arrow. "Don't think this means I'm going to eat any of your spinach quiche, Mum."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart," I tell her, with an angelic innocence. "I only make that when I'm in the mood to torture people."

"So I've heard," Rebecca says, one eyebrow delicately arched. "Hank told me some horror stories about it once when he was giving me my monthly check-up." She laughs. "I think it put me off green vegetables for life."

"You know, that really did sound like a challenge," I tease her. "Better be on your toes for the next month or so."

"Just try it," Rebecca says in mock-defiance, making a face at me. "I dare you."

"Oh, now that was a challenge – don't you think so, Sam?" I say, glancing at him and pointing a slightly crooked finger at my daughter. Sam laughs and shakes his head, holding his hands up as if to physically push the question away.

"Oh no – I ain't gettin' involved with this," he says, a wry smile laced across his face. "You guys can kick each other t' bits on your own time, but I ain't gonna be a part of it – no way, no how. I might be a dumb Kentucky farm boy, but I ain't that stupid."

"Good idea, Sam," Rebecca remarks, folding her arms and reclining against the back of the futon. "Never take sides in a fight between Braddock women."

"I wouldn't say this is a fight, exactly, Rebecca," I say. "We haven't caused nearly the amount of gratuitous property damage that the X-Men usually do, after all." Then, after putting my hands on the arms of my chair, I push myself to my feet and lean across to kiss my daughter on the cheek. "Anyway, my darling, I think I should leave you two alone now – I've imposed enough. You need your own space, after all."

Rebecca shakes her head vigorously (even a little anxiously, which makes me curious), gesturing for me to sit back down again. "Come on, Mum, we don't mind you staying – do we, Sam? Stay. Please." She stands and takes my hand, leading me back to the chair that I had been sitting in. "I like talking to you. Both of us do – don't we, Sam?"

Sam nods. "Sure. Ain't never anything but an experience when you two are around, I'll say that for nothin'."

"Even if it means talking about eating your greens?" I say, casually, a small smile touching the corners of my lips. "Why do you really want me to stay, Rebecca?"

Before Rebecca can answer, there comes a knock at the door to her room, and Rebecca almost jumps up from her seat to answer it. She opens the door to reveal Warren – who I'd sensed coming this way, but had assumed would pass this room by if I was in here. Apparently I was wrong. He returns Rebecca's affectionate hug and then stands with his arms folded. "Betsy," he says quietly, nodding towards me but keeping his distance a little, letting me know that he still feels a little angry about what happened earlier.

Feeling that I have to say something – anything – in return, I manage to reply "I… I have a new name for our son, if you'd like to hear it."

Warren raises his eyebrows, but keeps his arms crossed across his chest like a security fence. "So do I, as a matter of fact. Come on, then – hit me with it."

Looking at Rebecca for a second, to thank her silently, I say "Thomas." Warren's expression changes instantly to one of almost pure, distilled surprise, his blue eyes widening almost as far as they can go. He scratches the nape of his neck and exhales audibly.

"Me too," he says, stunned. "Talk about your weird coincidences, huh?"

Right now, Rebecca is struggling to hold back a smile, and she fails to keep it concealed from me (I might not be the world's best mother, but I do know Rebecca implicitly). Nodding towards our daughter, I say "Somehow – don't ask me how – I don't think it was that big a coincidence. When did you decide that Thomas was the name you wanted to use?"

Warren shrugs, and then points out of the window, in the direction of the small copse of trees that is positioned on the edge of Lake Breakstone. "About five minutes ago, I guess. I was over there by the lake, just skimming some stones, when that name kind of… pushed its way right to the front of my head, like it was the only one that really mattered. Why?" He pauses, and then nods towards Rebecca – who is rapidly turning a very pretty shade of crimson. "You think somebody might have been planting suggestions in my mind?"

"I don't know, Warren," I say, before I extend one hand casually towards Rebecca like a divining rod. "Why don't we ask her? Was it you who did that, by any chance, Rebecca?" Rebecca simply shrugs, her livid red face giving her sheepish smile an extra quality of guilt. Taking that as all the answer I need, I glance back towards Warren, and say "I think we've been had, don't you?"

"Hook, line and sinker," Warren agrees, winking at Rebecca. "Pretty good hustle, kid. Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know… I suppose I didn't want you two to fight over something so important," Rebecca says, her voice regaining a little of its previous strength. "That, and… I really like the name. So would you consider it? I'd like it if you did."

Looking over at Warren, I say "I don't know, Warren – should we think about it?"

Warren shrugs, after rolling the name around in his head, as if he is tasting a fine wine. "Why not? It's a good name. I like it." He chuckles, and then crushes Rebecca to him in an affectionate bear hug. "Might even make up for being tricked by my own kid."

I smile, delighted. "So we're all agreed, then? Now all we have to decide is which order we're going to put those other names on his birth certificate…"


	6. Chapter 6

Thomas Warren Douglas Worthington.

That's what Warren and I decided to call our son, after a little deliberation. It seemed to meet with approval from everybody we mentioned it to (which was actually everybody in the mansion, to be honest), but the person I really wanted it to mean something to, aside from Warren, was Rebecca. She and I haven't always seen completely eye to eye about this new baby, but I think she's changed her mind, at least a little – she did suggest the name Thomas, after all. Now she and I are sat on the terrace of a fashionable coffee shop in the centre of New York City, sipping expensive coffee and eating expensive pastries. Well, in actual fact, Rebecca is the one drinking the coffee. Thanks to my condition, I'm restricted to orange juice. One can't ever have too much vitamin C, apparently, or so Hank insists on telling me every time he gives me a check-up.

It's at times like this that I wish I had more unusual cravings than most pregnant women; buckets of black coffee and a large selection of jam doughnuts every morning would be nice – and it would certainly be better than the cravings I've been getting so far. Having endless urges to eat massive amounts of curried mashed potatoes and gherkins (and occasionally clay or plasticine – which is slightly more disturbing, even though it's apparently not that unusual) is really not my idea of fun.

Ignoring that thought as best I can, I sip my orange juice and put down the copy of the Daily Globe I had bought around five minutes ago, in order to pass the time while Rebecca ran through this café's disgustingly decadent menu of Danish pastries and soft drinks, and watch my daughter finishing off the last few mouthfuls of her apricot-filled pastry with gusto, cramming the final flaking scraps of it into her mouth with her fingers, in a most un-ladylike fashion. This is rather a shame, because she's dressed in a far more ladylike fashion than I am; her lithe form is clothed in a sharp blue trouser suit, with a matching blouse and delicately understated jewellery (a diamond-encrusted X-motif brooch that Warren bought her sits on her left breast pocket, and a thin golden bracelet encloses her right wrist). I, on the other hand, am forced to endure an extremely unflattering king-size Led Zeppelin t-shirt (Bobby bought it for me back when I couldn't be shoe-horned out of my leather trousers and clingy tops, in the hope that I might loosen up a little. It failed then, and it's not doing all that much for me now except to cover my bump) and a pair of blue tracksuit bottoms that have been steadily loosened as the months have slipped by. Right at this moment, I think the only thing holding them up is my navel, which has inverted itself and now pokes out from the swell of my belly like the snout of a mole.

Needless to say, Bobby had a field day with that one...

"Are you finished?" I ask her, rhetorically. "I'd appreciate it if I could be certain it's safe to look at you without having to see a pig at a trough."

"Sure, Mum, I'm finished," Rebecca says, before slurping a large mouthful of fragrant dark coffee from her deep, white china cup. "I promise not to behave like a pig for at least five minutes." She wrinkles her nose at me and grins. "Can't say if I'll keep that promise, though."

"I trust you, Rebecca," I reply, my voice dry as autumn leaves, and then I fold my paper in two before sliding it underneath my black leather handbag. "I don't know why I trust you, but I trust you."

"Must be these eyes – Sam says he can never tell if I'm lying or not," Rebecca fires back, fluttering her eyelashes at me, before her face takes on a more serious aspect, and she folds her hands around her empty plate. "Why did you bring me all the way out here, Mum? It's not like we can't talk at home, so why go to all this trouble just for the two of us?"

"I wanted to thank you," I murmur quietly, reaching around my bump to stroke the back of her hand with my fingertips. "I know that this hasn't been very easy for you to deal with, Rebecca, so I wanted to tell how proud I am of you that you've reacted the way you have. You didn't have to do what you did last week, but you did, and I'm glad for that."

Rebecca blinks, a look of bemusement settling across her pretty face. She stays silent for a moment or two before she says, hesitantly, "Don't… don't mention it, Mum. It was the least I could do." A corner of her mouth tweaks itself up in a sheepish smile. "Don't think I did it because I'm getting more comfortable with the idea of having a baby brother, though. I only did it because I hate to see you and Dad fighting. That's all." Her smile changes shape slightly, becoming more rakish as it does so. "Besides, if I let on that I don't mind that much any more, who knows what you'll ask me to do?" She winks at me as she takes another sip of her coffee. "Just so you know: I draw the line at changing his nappy. I'll baby sit him, and I'll feed him, but me changing his nappy? That just isn't going to happen." To reinforce her point, she holds up a single index finger and wags it from side to side, as if she is admonishing me for even contemplating such a notion.

I shake my head, pursing my lips. "Well, then, I suppose you have a few things to learn about babies, Rebecca. You'll have to learn how to change a nappy at some point, my dear – if he wants to go, he'll go, and you won't have any say in the matter."

Rebecca shrugs. "I'll just get Sam to do it. He's probably had enough practice with his little brothers and sisters to be able to do it blindfold."

"I don't think Sam will put up with doing it for ever, darling," I say, thoughtfully. "Besides, I told him to teach you how to do it, just in case he's not there."

"You did what?" Rebecca exclaims, after almost snorting her mouthful of coffee out through her nostrils. "You know Sam will take that request really seriously, don't you? He'll have me right there the first time it happens! I'll be up to my elbows in baby powder!"

My smile widens. "I know. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Ha, ha, ha." Rebecca glares at me through cat-like, half-lidded eyes, her coffee cup safely stowed back in its saucer on the table. "You're a riot, Mum. I don't know how you haven't done stand-up yet."

I shrug, noncommittally, and then interlace my fingers and lay them on the table. "Oh, I'm just saving myself for a film career, darling. Once Tom is born, I'm off to Hollywood. I'm sure they'll just love to have an authentic British girl for their latest blockbuster…"

"Sorry to break it to you, Mum, but they'd probably want me before they'd want you," Rebecca says, stretching languorously, looking even more like a cat than she did before. "I have that certain je ne sais quoi they'd be looking for, after all." She runs a hand through her hair and puts her expensive sunglasses back on, as if to disguise her identity (in true celebrity fashion, of course), and then blows me a kiss. "You're cute, sweetie, but you just don't have it."

That makes me laugh broadly. "Oh, I wouldn't bet on that, button. I had it before you even knew what it was – I mean, I was on the cover of Vogue two months in a row, after all. Nobody else ever managed that before, and they haven't since. I have a feeling the world will beg me to let them kiss my feet once I tell them I want to see them again." I sip my orange juice and chuckle again, feeling a pleasantly warm sensation work its way through my body. "I was the one person they wanted photographs of each and every week, Rebecca. I could dress myself in a bikini or an evening dress, and they'd still want me to pose for them." My face abruptly takes on a reflective look, and I rest my chin on the knuckles of my upraised hands. "But, of course, that was all before Slaymaster blinded me. After that, I couldn't get a contract for love nor money."

Rebecca purses her lips, and then raises her right hand to grasp mine. She squeezes firmly, offering me a little smile at the same time. "Hey, now," she says. "Don't you go getting all depressing on me, okay? It doesn't suit you." She winks, and pushes her large, unfinished cup of coffee towards me. "Go on, Mum – treat yourself. I won't tell Hank if you don't."

"You're a very bad girl, you know," I tell her firmly, taking hold of Rebecca's half-full cup with gusto, "but I think I can overlook that… just this once." Raising the cup to my lips, I take into my mouth a grateful measure of the rich black liquid contained inside it, savouring the coffee's flavour over and above the residual tang of my orange juice. The caffeine hit is almost instantaneous, my poor, deprived body enjoying its first dose of any kind of stimulant for months. Rebecca looks at me uncertainly, even though she can undoubtedly feel my pleasure at being able to taste good coffee again.

"Good?" she asks, her eyebrows raised.

"Very," I reply, licking my lips and taking another sip. "I think I'll have to come back here more often."

After another ten minutes or so, Rebecca and I leave a tip for our waitress and start to walk along the busy street, Rebecca keeping her easy, loping strides as short as possible to try and avoid leaving me behind. She puts her hand in mine, in the hope that that will keep her anchored to me, and we are finally able to work out a rhythm that both of us can keep to. By this point, my formerly elegant gait has been reduced to a humiliating waddle, my centre of gravity so low that I feel like I'm going to fall on my backside at any moment – so I'm grateful for the effort, and tell Rebecca as much. She waves me quiet with her free hand, and makes a face that tells me not to be grateful for something so insignificant.

"I mean it," I say, wheezing slightly as my laboured lungs try to gather as much oxygen as they possibly can. "Anything you can do to help me at the moment is very much appreciated."

Rebecca lets a little scrap of reflective contemplation seep into her surface thoughts, and then she says "So… what does it feel like to be pregnant?"

The question almost finishes the job my son is doing, and nearly knocks me flat on my back – coming completely out of the blue as it does, it's something that even a highly skilled telepath would probably have had trouble reading or predicting (and I suspect that Rebecca takes a secret pride in that; having me for a mother and Jean for an aunt has made her quite quick to try and outdo one or both of us, if she possibly can). "I beg your pardon?" are the only words my stunned brain can muster.

"I'm serious, Mum. I'd really like to know what you're going through," Rebecca begins, glancing up at the crossing lights in front of us for a moment or two, before she helps me across the road, drivers either side of us looking increasingly annoyed that they have a heavily-pregnant woman interfering with their carefully-planned journey times. "What does it feel like to have another human being growing inside you?"

Once we have safely reached the other side of the pavement, I find the breath, somewhere, to say "Why do you ask? You and Sam aren't –"

"Oh, God, no," Rebecca laughs, squeezing my arm reassuringly. "I think I'll leave it to the professionals right now, Mum. I'm just… curious, you know?" She sniggers abruptly, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle a dirty laugh. "Well done for thinking the worst of me, though. Dad would be proud."

"I'm sure," I say, feeling laughter tugging at the corners of my mouth for a moment or two as well. "Anyway, you wanted to know what it's like to be pregnant. Well… for the first two months, you don't really feel all that different, aside from morning sickness."

"What about now?" Rebecca's pretty face is etched with fascination. "How do you feel now?"

"Ready to pop," I tell her, honestly, feeling yet another twinge in my back as my son's weight tugs at my spine. "I shall truly be glad to get this baby out of me. I'll tell you something, though: I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world."

"I think that's obvious to anybody you talk to, Mum," Rebecca replies. "I'm… glad you're happy." She smiles suddenly, as a thought strikes her. "Just don't forget me, okay?" That makes me laugh out loud, and hug my daughter to me as energetically as I possibly can.

"I don't think I could if I tried, Rebecca. You're far too… special."

Rebecca raises a carefully-sculpted eyebrow and purses her lips, looking uncharacteristically reflective. "I don't know if I should be flattered or offended by that."

"Flattered, of course," I say, doing my best to look as if her doubt has wounded me deeply. "You're my eldest daughter – my only daughter. I think that counts for something, don't you?"

Darkness suddenly falls across Rebecca's mind, like a summer thunderstorm rolling inexorably across blue skies. "Well, I'm not really your daughter, am I, Mum?" she says, her voice abruptly gone small, disappointed. The swift change in her mood startles me, and makes me wonder why this emotion did not come out sooner. The way Rebecca is looking at me suggests that this has been brewing for a while now, and this is the first time she has really given voice to it. The way her voice is quaking also tells me that she is unsure of how to articulate her emotions. "I'm just something you took in because you had to, aren't I? Be honest, Mum."

"In the beginning… yes, that's exactly how I felt," I say, feeling guilt gnaw hungrily at my mind. "But I don't feel like that now, button. I want you to be a part of this family, just as much as your father does. You see that, don't you?"

"Yes, but I'm just not the same as him, am I?" Rebecca gestures momentarily at my swollen belly, contempt for herself plainly evident in her words and emotions. "I'm not… normal, like he is. I can't really measure up to that, can I?" She scratches at her neck, looking down at the spider-webbed cracks in the pavement for a moment or two, before she raises her head again and links her suddenly tear-moistened gaze with mine. In an instant, I can feel the special bond that she and I have forged in our short time together snapping taut, like a rope given no more slack. With a speed that cuts through even my reflexes, Rebecca steps forward quickly and puts her arms around me, her hands clinging to me like an infant's tiny fingers, and her head laid against my chest, like a child begging for succour. It reminds me, oddly, of when she first reached out to me, all those months ago; the same sense of exposed, raw vulnerability she showed then seems to drive her actions now. I can sense a certain desperation in what she's doing, as if she feels she has no other alternative, and it breaks my heart. "I don't… I don't want to be second-best."

Hearing her say those words shocks me, right down to my core. "Is that what you think is going to happen when Tom is born? That your father and I are just going to ignore you now that we've got a new baby to look after?" I say, in disbelief. "That's never going to happen, Rebecca. I promise." Lifting her chin with my hand, and wiping her cheeks dry with my handkerchief, I give her my best attempt at a reassuring smile. "All right?"

Rebecca takes a deep breath and blinks away some remaining tears. "All right," she says, softly. She laughs quietly then, mirthlessly. "God, you must think I'm so stupid, throwing a dumb tantrum like that."

"I don't think you're stupid, sweetheart," I tell her, kissing her gently on the forehead and hugging her to me affectionately. "I think you were scared, yes, but you really had no reason to be. The only thing that's going to change because of Tom is your parents' sleeping habits – nothing you do or say will make me or your father love you any more or less than we already do. And besides, as grown-up children go, I'd much rather have you than Cable or Rachel."

"Okay, Mum," Rebecca deadpans, "you win; I believe you. I wouldn't tell my brother you said that, though."

"Oh, perish the thought," I say, placing a splayed hand on my chest in an overly extravagant display of manufactured shock. "Whatever do you take me for?"

"Somebody trying too hard to be funny," Rebecca replies, an air of mischief returning slowly to her voice. "You don't have to keep trying to make me laugh, Mum – I feel better already, honest." She raises a weak smile and presses her head against my chest once again, a little more self-confident this time. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome," I whisper directly into her ear, "as long as you promise to learn what Sam wants to teach you about changing nappies."

Rebecca gives me an odd look for a moment or two, as if she can't believe what she's hearing, and then she purses her lips, appearing completely unfazed once again. "I should have known you'd say something like that," she says, some welcome wry humour flecking her words. "Okay, Mum. You drive a hard bargain, but… okay. It's a deal – as long as you start reading me bedtime stories as well."

"Good girl," I say with what I hope is infectious enthusiasm. "I'll start you off with _The Cat In The Hat_ , shall I?"

"Sounds good to me," Rebecca smiles. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that she has one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen, and it warms my heart to see it. "I'll hold you to that."


	7. Chapter 7

The looming façade of Worthington Industries' New York office climbs high into the sky before us, its spire lost in the bright sunshine. Rebecca takes in its entire profile, and then glances at me quizzically. "Are we going to do what I think we're going to do?"

"Why not?" I say, an impish expression crossing my doubtlessly-tired features. "It's been too long since I've seen your father at work, after all, and I expect he'll be glad to see us, too." I stretch out my hand and brush a stray lock of my daughter's golden-blonde hair out of her face, tucking it behind one of her small ears so as to keep her scarlet eyes free of obstructions. I'm almost tempted to lick my finger and wipe away a smudge of apricot pastry at the corner of Rebecca's mouth, as well, but I have learned from experience that Rebecca will only complain, so I leave it there for her to notice herself. It's far safer for all concerned, since although Rebecca likes a certain amount of pampering, as all children do, she draws the line at being babied (although the moment when I overstep the mark is something that only she can define, naturally). I suspect that the mirrors situated all around the lounge entrance to my husband's offices will help avoid that, and keep us all happy in the process. Walking as quickly as I can towards the automatic doors, I pause just out of their sensor range and turn back towards my daughter, who it seems is still a little reluctant to bother her father at work. Some prodding is in order, it would seem… "Come on, Rebecca," I say encouragingly. "You'll never learn to misbehave if you don't follow my lead."

Rebecca raises her eyebrows and shifts her feet in place. "That's what I'm afraid of," she replies, her arms folded. "Following your lead has only ever got me into trouble." Then, seeing I'm not going to change my mind, she rolls her eyes and follows me towards the doors, walking past me so that they hiss gently open almost inaudibly. Then, she bends at the waist and ushers me inside, like a chambermaid or a pageboy would do. "After you," she says, a faint smile crossing her lips. As I walk slowly through the doors, trying to keep as dignified a posture as I can, I can see her examining her face in the glass for a moment or two in order to clear the smudge of pastry away, and it makes me smile surreptitiously to myself that I got her reaction so correct. It's nice to know that I've become able to predict her reactions even without the benefit of my telepathy – it makes me feel that I'm a success as Rebecca's mother, and as her friend. I think it bodes well for both of my children in the long term.

Walking up to the receptionist's desk, I tap my fingers gently on its lacquered surface until the girl behind it has finished her phone call (which she took great pains to do as quickly as possible, since I don't think it was for purely business purposes. I know I've never called anybody "pookie" in pursuit of purely pecuniary gains, after all; well, not unless I absolutely had to as part of my STRIKE work, anyway…). "Can I help you, ma'am?" she says, her cheeks a little flushed. There is a nervous undertone in her words that seems to plead with me not to tell her supervisor – not that I was going to anyway, but it's nice to know she feels guilty about wasting time that could be better spent organising appointments or filing papers.

"Yes," I say, at the same time trying to subtly stimulate the production of endorphins in her brain so that her frantically-pounding heart will slow down to a healthier pace. "Will you tell Mr Worthington that his wife is here to see him? Tell him that Betsy thought it would be a nice surprise to bring the children to work – he'll know what I'm talking about."

"Yes, ma'am," the girl replies – the effects of my telepathic ministrations showing almost immediately, since she sounds a good deal calmer than before. She presses a small button on her desk and says "Mr Worthington, sir? I have a woman here who says she's your wife. She said to tell you that she wanted to bring the children to work – is that all right?"

"Yes, Victoria, that's all right. Send her right up." My husband's voice flows through the miniature speaker placed next to the intercom microphone, and the girl, Victoria, quickly puts on a resolute face and gets up out of her chair to direct me towards the foyer's lifts, which are secreted towards the back of the room and have glamorous art deco dials above them to indicate where they are, and are flanked by oriental plants with large, opulent blooms. Victoria smiles briefly at Rebecca and myself, and then she retreats back to her desk and leaves the two of us to make the journey upwards to Warren's top-floor offices. Rebecca is closer to the wooden panel that controls the lift's movement, so she strokes the metal-edged button and sets the lift in motion with a slight shudder. It hums gently as it nears my husband's floor, and then comes to an almost impossibly soft stop as it ends its journey, its doors sighing open and showing us the expensively decorated floor that Warren has designated to himself alone. Opposite the lift is a life-size painting of me, done before I was returned to my original body. I am clad in a red silk kimono and am holding a large Oriental fan which is splattered liberally with Japanese script. A long katana blade, light glittering off its flawless surface, has been leant against the wall before which I am stood, my pose regal and undisturbed. The picture was painted a little while before I was given the mark of the Crimson Dawn, so the scarlet slash of a tattoo that bisected my face for far too long is thankfully absent from my likeness.

Beside it is another life-size painting – this time of me in my real body. In this picture, I am contained within an elegant evening dress, my long blonde hair flowing around me and framing my blue-eyed face, which is split into a happy, almost delirious smile (at the time it was done, I was so happy to be back the way I was that I couldn't do anything but smile). Warren says he keeps them side by side to remind him of the two phases of our relationship – the confused early time, when we were beset by changes, and the more stable later period, when we beat those changes and became stronger for it.

Down the hall are two similar paintings: this time of Warren himself, with both his feathered and techno-organic wings, and both his Caucasian and blue skin colours. Both times he posed in a sharp cream-coloured Armani suit and a white shirt with a black tie, on which was displayed the crest of the Xavier Institute. And finally, just before we reach the doors of Warren's private offices, there is a life-size painting of Rebecca. She looks coy yet confident in her black trouser suit and similarly-coloured high heels, her scarlet eyes almost as piercing on the two-dimensional canvas as they are in the three dimensions of reality. As she sees herself, Rebecca almost faints, before she throws up a hand and jabs a finger at her likeness.

"He said he wouldn't put it here!" she cries indignantly, in an almost childlike fashion (which I can forgive her for, I suppose). "He promised!" Smiling gently, I reach around Rebecca's shoulder and give her a little squeeze, kissing her on the temple – from which she hastily retreats, as if she's afraid I will do her further embarrassment even though there's nobody around to see us.

"Oh, sweetheart, he's only put it here because he's proud of you," I say, laughter spilling from my throat like rich wine. "We both are."

Rebecca's face twists into a sulky pout, and she nods towards the painting with a sullen determination. "Yeah, but… I look like a dork posing like that." She thrusts an almost accusing finger at the painting's blindly-smiling visage. "Don't I?"

"No, darling, you look beautiful. And I'm sure anybody else who visits your father's offices thinks the same." Then something occurs to me, and I feel I have to voice it. "Don't you think this proves how highly your father feels about you? I think he wouldn't have put this painting here if he didn't think you were one of the most important things in his life, do you?"

Rolling her eyes as if to discount the complete and utter obviousness of what I've just said, Rebecca presses on towards the door of Warren's office, tapping the intercom button set into one side of the doorframe and announcing that we have arrived. After she has done that, she says "You aren't going to let this go until you've proved your point, are you, Mum?" The deadpan tone in her voice indicates that she no illusions about what I'm going to say.

"What can I say?" I exclaim brightly, shrugging my shoulders with a schoolgirl's innocence. "I have a gift for subtlety."

Just then, Warren comes to the door of his office, and greets the two of us warmly. "Hey, princess," he says to Rebecca, kissing her affectionately on the forehead. "Good to see you." Then he turns his attention to me, and takes me into his arms before kissing me gently on the lips. "Hi," he murmurs, a pleased little smile exposing his pure-white teeth. "So what'd I do to deserve this?"

"You didn't do anything, husband dearest," I say, tapping my husband on the nose reproachfully. "Rebecca and I were in the neighbourhood, and we decided to pay you a visit. Didn't we, darling?" I turn in Warren's arms so that I can look at Rebecca, who has flushed crimson and is shifting from foot to foot as if she has been caught doing something very, very bad indeed.

"This is so unfair," she mutters flatly, giving me a searing, slit-eyed glare. Then, to her father, she says, slightly more loudly, "Mum and I were just getting some coffee in the city, and I said… I said that I was jealous of Tom. So she said we ought to come here and talk about that with you."

Warren's face becomes about five shades more serious in an instant, and he opens the door behind, gesturing for Rebecca and me to walk past him into his plushly-decorated workspace. "You'd better come in," he says. Leading Rebecca over to a sofa covered with pristine white leather, he sits down opposite her, after finding me a comfortable chair of my own, and gently takes her hands in his. "You know you don't have to feel jealous of your brother, don't you? Just because your mother and I are having a baby of our own, doesn't mean for one instant that we'll love you any less than we do."

"Yeah, that's pretty much what Mum said, too," Rebecca replies, a weak smile hovering around her lips. "Don't worry about me, Dad. I think those paintings out there kind of showed me the way you really feel about Mum and me."

"You saw those, huh?" Warren's face cracks into a relieved smile then, and he throws an arm around Rebecca's slender shoulders in a chummy kind of way, rubbing her furthermost arm with his hand. "You know, I've had so many people ask me who the attractive young lady in the picture outside my door is, I've lost count. I always remember the way their faces look when I tell them she's my daughter, though – and you know what they look like?" He waits for Rebecca to shake her head, as if she's humouring him, and then pauses for another moment or two, for a little more dramatic effect. "They look jealous."

"Oh, they do not," Rebecca retorts, blushing a fierce shade of crimson. "You're just saying that, aren't you?"

"Not at all," Warren says. "I had some Texan guy in here just last week who wanted to know which plastic surgeon I went to, so he could stay looking as young as I do."

Rebecca sticks her tongue out at him, before grabbing a cushion and hitting him playfully around the head with it. "Don't push it, Dad," she laughs. "Trying to be funny isn't one of your strong points."

"Is that right?" Warren says, cocking a curious eyebrow – after wrestling the cushion away from her so that he can be sure she won't hit him again, naturally. "Your mother never complained about my sense of humour. Did you, Betsy?"

"Only because I was being polite, darling," I tell him, diplomatically, giving him a little wink. "I didn't want to make you feel bad."

"You know, Betts, I think I feel my self-esteem crashing and burning," Warren says, sweeping his hand down into the glass table as if it's a stricken aircraft, in order to demonstrate his point. "I'll send you the therapy bills, shall I?" He nods towards me, leaning in close to Rebecca's left ear, and then whispers in a conspiratorial tone, "You know, your mother still owes me about five thousand bucks, Rebecca. You want to help me make her pay up?"

"You wish," Rebecca snorts, in faux-contempt. "The way I see it, you owe her for making her carry your son all this time… so it all balances out, doesn't it?" She grins at Warren's exasperated expression and hops lightly to her feet, before skipping over to me like a schoolgirl and sitting on the arm of my chair with an inscrutable cat-like expression on her face. She folds her arms and then says "I think you ought to milk him for everything he's got, Mum." Then a flower of mischievous intent opens on the surface of her mind, and she says "Try and get him to give me his new Ferrari for the weekend."

Warren folds his arms and raises an eyebrow slowly, leaning back into his seat for a moment or two. "Nice try, Rebecca, but your mother and I agreed not to let you drive that car until you proved that you could be trusted with it. Didn't we, Betsy?" Something in his face tells me that he is hoping I will follow through with his rather obvious bluff, so it's lucky for him I happen to agree with his viewpoint.

"Yes, we did," I say, trying to look as serious as possible. "Until you show us that you won't misuse your father's new car, I'm afraid you'll have to wait. However… I think it's all right for you to take any of the other cars we have at the Xavier Institute. Wouldn't you agree, Warren?" I can already see Warren's vindicated expression turn to one of barely-veiled horror in the corner of my eye, even as I see Rebecca's disappointment blossom into something altogether less sour.

"Well, I, uh…" Warren begins, before he senses that he's on a losing wicket here, and holds his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay – I know when I'm beaten, guys. But you have to tell me or your mother whenever you want to go driving, Rebecca, or you don't get to go at all." Something in his tone tells both Rebecca and me that he's secretly enjoying being an authoritative father, so Rebecca simply nods demurely, giving me a surreptitious knowing look even before she has finished doing so. I return it in an equally covert fashion, as if she and I are both members of a secret society of some kind (I think Warren would say that we both are anyway, simply by virtue of having two X chromosomes). However, secret society or not, I have to agree with my husband; I hardly want my eldest child disappearing without my consent. I had that happen to me once before, and I didn't like it one iota…

"Your father's right, Rebecca; don't expect to be able to take any car you like, at any time you like. We've been using a kind of booking system for a while now – there's a sheet of paper and a pen in the garage, and all you have to do is write down which car you're borrowing, so that the owner knows where it is. It's not hard to get the hang of, trust me." Rebecca mulls that notion over for a moment or two, rolling her tongue across her upper front teeth thoughtfully, and tapping her fingers on her uppermost kneecap.

"I think I can live with that," she says, "as long as I get to drive that Ferrari sometimes. That car kicks ass." She chuckles lightly. "Still can't believe you're actually going to let me drive it, though. I'd have thought you'd make me drive Logan's Jeep until the day I die… at least I couldn't smash that up any worse than it already is."

"Good point," Warren says, as if what Rebecca has just said is the greatest idea he's ever heard. "What do you say, Betsy? Shall we ask Logan to give Rebecca his Jeep?"

"Oh, I think that's a wonderful idea. I think Logan's Jeep would be perfect for you, button," I reply, winking at Rebecca slyly. Rebecca stays silent for a few moments, fuming, before she rolls her eyes and glances at the ceiling in mock-irritation.

"You're not funny, Mum," she says, her gaze still focused on the ceiling. "The day I drive that piece of junk is the day I grow sideburns, lose about six inches of height, and start calling everybody 'bub' just because I think it sounds cool."

"Now there's an image," Warren replies thoughtfully. "All right, Rebecca; I'll try and get the ice-cube to lend you his Mustang. At least he's had some time to break that car in." Rebecca's face lights up, all traces of dismay at my (apparently quite poor) sense of humour dissolving almost instantly.

"You're kidding me. You'd do that?" There is a palpable sense of wonder in her voice, which doesn't surprise me one bit; the way that Rebecca has looked at Bobby's Mustang in the past has suggested nothing but a deep longing to drive it.

"If you're a good girl, sure," Warren says, winking. "As long as you say your prayers, take your vitamins, and agree to help us with your little brother if we ask you to, I'll see if I can convince Bobby to let you take that car out for a few hours. He does owe me a couple of big favours, after all, so he shouldn't be able to say no – not unless he's trying to impress Emma, that is. What do you say?"

Rebecca folds her arms and purses her lips. "You know, that could be taken as emotional blackmail… but I guess I can live with that, too. You guys are the best." She smiles. "No matter how many times I say you aren't."

"So what else did you do today?" Warren asks me as he helps me into our bed, one hand draped around my waist and the other cupping my right palm. "Anything interesting?"

"Oh, nothing much," I say, whimsically, before taking a sip from the glass of fresh water on my bedside table. "We went to Times Square and had some toasted bagels, and then we went clothes-shopping for a while before we walked back to the car." I rub my spine as the memory of the strain comes back to me, with my puffy, swollen ankles simultaneously growling in protest. It feels like my whole body is issuing me with a stern warning never to move again. "Remind me never to walk that much again until after I give birth, will you?"

"I'll have to fly you everywhere, I guess," Warren says, moving nimbly around to his side of the bed and flipping the silk sheets back so that he can climb in beside me and wrap an arm around my shoulders affectionately. "What do you say?"

"That's a great idea, sweetheart," I say, a thoughtful expression crossing my face briefly. "I'll hold you to that." I stretch briefly, feeling tense knots of muscle wring themselves out for a moment or two, like wet dishcloths being squeezed. "Peel me a few grapes, too, would you? I don't think I'll have the strength…" To emphasise my point, I collapse back into my pillows and cushions like a fainting damsel in distress, one hand plaintively at my forehead so as to complete the picture of a helpless maiden I have just painted.

In response to my theatrical display, Warren rolls his eyes and claps ironically. "You should be on Broadway," he remarks, his voice flat, but still tinged with edges of acidic humour. "Me and my big mouth…" He looks at the floor for a moment or so, before he says "How's Rebecca?"

"You saw her today, Warren," I reply, knocking on his forehead with my knuckles to try and shock his brain back to life. "She's fine. But in case you're worrying, she told me that seeing you and talking about what she was going through really helped her feel a lot better about this whole situation. She loves you so much, you know; it flows off her whenever you're around. She needed some reassurance that we love her just as much as we love the baby – from somebody other than me, I mean – and I think you gave it to her." I laugh to myself, a half-smile pulling one corner of my lips up in a faint curve. "She didn't stop talking about you for half an hour. I'd say you impressed her."

Warren blinks, a little taken aback. "Half an hour? Really?"

"Really," I say, echoing him softly. "She even said she forgives you for hanging that painting of her outside your office – but that was only because I pushed her into it. She was running out of good things to say at that point, and I couldn't think of anything else to add." I wink at my husband, and kiss him with as much good humour as I can muster through my exhaustion. "So I bought her an ice cream and bribed her instead."

"And it was all going so well, too," Warren murmurs. "Remind me to brush up on my bribery skills…"


	8. Chapter 8

My due date passed a day or so ago. I feel like I'm about to burst. The weight of my baby is preventing me from moving anywhere without getting out of breath, and I'm beginning to consider just begging Beast to perform a Caesarean section on me, scars be damned. My ankles are sore, my back aches, there is a horrible bloated quality to my body at the moment, and I wish I could just be free of it all. I have been experiencing occasional, but painful Braxton-Hicks contractions – in other words, "practice runs" for birth – and they do not fill with me with anything but a deep sense of disappointment when they turn out to be little more than that. However… as I have told myself again and again, it's pointless to complain about something that can't be changed. If Hank eventually feels he has to induce labour, then that's what he'll do. I don't think he's happy seeing me so uncomfortable (even if it does give him the opportunity to practice his bedside manner), so I'd bet that he'll be looking into that possibility before long.

At the moment, though, I'm taking the opportunity to rest my back, sitting in the crowded rec. room with a (half-full) cup of Earl Grey from the pot of tea that Brian and Meggan managed to brew up for me. They're sitting across from me, cups in hand, giving me earnest, concerned looks (which I swear I am growing incredibly tired of). Meggan's bright green eyes are alive with fascination, too, since she's likely never been too bothered with human mating before, and she is regarding me with an almost insatiable curiosity – like a child who has been given a new toy, in fact.

"How are you feeling, Betsy?" she asks, brightly, leaning forward and placing her bone-china cup on the small table in front of her, as Hank begins to juggle peanuts with his toes in order to impress Ororo.

"Like a beached whale," I say, a sour tone running through my words. "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't even drink my tea without needing to visit the toilet every five minutes. I just want this whole thing to be over." Rubbing at the corners of my eyes, I exhale loudly, feeling a small twinge of pressure at the base of my pelvis. "I'm sorry, Meggan. I didn't mean to go off at you like that… I'm just so very tired of feeling like I have an anvil strapped to my stomach."

Brian nods as sympathetically as he can, and puts his teacup down onto the table in front of him before he leans forward and touches my knee with his hand, giving me a reassuring smile at the same time. "You'll be fine," he says, trying to sound as confident as possible. "I'm sure of it. If I've learned anything from being your brother, it's that you can take anything that life throws at you. You're a survivor, Betsy, and you're going to get through this whatever happens." He winks. "Take it from one Captain Britain from another."

At the mention of my short tenure as Captain Britain, my free hand involuntarily rises to brush the skin around my eyes. Daggers of remembered pain sketch out the feeling of Slaymaster's fingers carving into my face and bursting my eyeballs like soap bubbles, hot splashes of remembered blood wetting my cheeks. Brian immediately senses what I'm feeling and says, quickly, "I'm sorry, Betsy. I didn't mean to –"

I wave him silent, blinking the unwelcome memories away. "No, Brian, I know what you meant, and I'm grateful for the compliment. Like you said: I'm a survivor. I got through that, and I'll get through this." I shrug. "I'm still breathing, so it's not like I have much of a choice, is it?"

Brian grins, relief washing over his face. "There you go. That's the Betsy I remember."

"And you're still the Brian I remember," I shoot back, chuckling lightly. "Totally tactless… but very sweet."

"Thanks. I think," Brian says, as he scratches his head and smoothes out a wayward tuft of his blond hair. Then he sips a little more of his tea and puts his arm around Meggan lightly, so that Meggan shifts closer to him and drapes her left arm across his stomach. "So… you've thought about what you're going to do for the birth, I'm guessing?"

"I want to stay here, and be with my family," I say, firmly and with almost no hesitation. "Hank's programmed a birthing pool simulation into the Danger Room, and I think he's also calling in a few favours to get hold of a cot so that Tom can sleep in the infirmary for the first few days. I want him to have the best of care, and I want him to be completely safe. If he were in a hospital filled with humans, there's a chance he might not get one or the other."

"Do you think you'll ever have another baby after this?" Meggan asks curiously.

"Honestly? I don't think so, not unless they're accidental," I say, rubbing my swollen belly with both hands. "After nine months of this, I don't think I could plan going through it all again. No, Rebecca and Tom are enough for me. Why do you ask?"

Meggan shrugs. "Brian and I discussed having more than one child last night, that's all."

"Yes, we thought about putting a definite limit on the number we'd have," Brian adds. "I thought that two was probably enough. After what you've had to go through, we decided going for more than that was pushing things a little too far."

"Yes, well, I'm not exactly a model case, Brian, am I?" I retort, slapping him on the shoulder in a chummy kind of way. "Rebecca didn't arrive the usual way, did she? Better to use somebody else's example, I think. Somebody like Reed and Sue Richards, perhaps – at least they managed to have a child the normal way, the first time round."

"See, you say that, Betsy, but look what they turned out – a little boy who creates universes before morning playgroup," Brian fires back. "I think, given the choice, I'll stick with my sister… if that's okay with you, that is."

"All right, Brian," I say, holding my hands up in defeat. "You win – again. But on your own head be it."

Brian snaps his fingers and cracks the biggest smile I've seen from him in a long time. "Excellent," he exclaims energetically. "You'll have to give me nappy-changing lessons some time."

"That's the first time I've heard somebody actually wanting to learn how to change a nappy," I laugh. "Most people only want to take the baby for walks or teach it how to fly a kite. Are you sure you wouldn't rather learn how to do that?"

"Well, if I'm going to be a daddy, I guess I'll have to see the warts-and-all side of things," Brian shrugs. "I can't exactly hire a nanny to do all of that for me, can I?"

"I don't think that'd work either, Captain Limey," Rogue says, as she turns away from her game of pool, having beaten Remy soundly yet again. "Momma always told me that you ain't really a momma until you've thrown away your first dirty diaper. 'Course, I reckon she was just sayin' that, but I guess it's somethin' you have to learn one way or another." 

Meggan is just about to reply when I feel a familiar twinge in my abdomen, the muscles of my womb starting to exercise themselves and a warm trickle of fluid spilling down my leg. It strikes me silent for a second until Meggan grips me on the arm and asks me if I'm all right. "My waters have broken," I say, dumbfounded. "Get Hank. Find Warren…"


	9. Chapter 9

My contractions are coming every three or four minutes now, lasting about sixty seconds at a time, and I've been having them for a few hours now (Apparently that means I'm about to start doing the "real work" of the birth, but I'm convinced whoever wrote that was a man. As if this was an easy ride so far…). When they first started, the others were quick to help me down to the Danger Room, where Hank had already begun the birthing pool simulation. Now, after still having been able to walk around a little bit during the first stage of my labour, I'm in the warm simulated water up to my waist. Warren is holding one hand and Rebecca holds the other; both of them share the same pensive expression. Aside from them, Hank, Jean and the Professor are the only other people in the room – Charles, Rebecca and Jean are providing telepathic anaesthetic as best they can, in addition to the heady cocktail of drugs Hank has injected me with, and Hank has been designated as an honorary midwife. In between my grunts of exertion, brought on by the increasing burning sensation between my legs, I find myself wondering if Warren and I have made the right decision in opting to stay here at the mansion; after all, it was a gamble at best, and folly at worst, and we might end up paying for it in the worst way possible. Then I hear the hum of the Shi'Ar machines all around me (a perfect replica of the med-lab) and I am reassured just a little. With these devices at their disposal, nobody could fail to at least do their best – and Hank's best is far better than anyone else's. It's heartening to know I'm in such good hands… but that's not really my highest priority at the moment, it has to be said.

A particularly strong contraction makes me clutch compulsively at Warren's hand, squeezing it as hard as I can. "You'll stay, won't you, Warren?" I manage to say, through gritted teeth.

"Of course," Warren says earnestly, ignoring my vice-like grip as best he can. "We all will. I promise."

"Me too, Mum," Rebecca adds, her tone soft. She strokes my forehead with her free hand. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

Hank checks a few read-outs on the portable handset that he managed to bring down from the med-lab, and manages a small smile, his milk-white fangs peeking out over his bottom lip. "That's what I like to see," he tells me in his deep bass purr. "You're doing really well, Betsy. Keep this up and we should be out of here in the next hour or so." He hands me a half-litre bottle of water, and says "Here. You should keep your fluid intake up – it'll get you ready for later. I'll bring you more if you need it, all right?"

Clumsily, my fingers curling like claws, I bring the bottle to my lips and gulp a few mouthfuls in between contractions, before splashing some on my face to try and keep my temperature down, and rinsing my forehead of the sheen of sweat that has begun to coat it. "Thank you, Hank," I say, breathlessly. "I guess… I look a real picture… don't I?"

A moment before Hank can answer, I let loose my first real cry of pain, screaming as loudly as I can and crushing both Rebecca and Warren's hands in my own, as if to try and transfer my pain to them – and in Warren's case, it works, at least partially. He winces as my agony, muted or otherwise, sparks along our psychic rapport and slams into his frontal lobes like a gunshot. "Oh, God," he mutters, rubbing at his temples with the fingertips of his free hand and swallowing the mild-by-comparison pain of his mangled fingers. "I forgot about that."

"Just think of them as sympathy pains," Rebecca says, brushing her hand across my forehead gently while she speaks, her face quickly losing its momentary humour. I can feel her telepathic signal latching onto my pain centres and shutting them down one by one, and I wonder if she's doing the right thing. Right now, though, I'm appreciating every bit of help I can get, so I say nothing. "It's going to be okay, Mum," my daughter whispers, kissing me gently on the cheek. "You can handle this."

"I wish I had your confidence," I hiss between painful breaths. "You have no idea how much this hurts…"

"Push, Betsy! Push!" Hank exclaims, his blue eyes wide with wonder.

"I am pushing, you idiot!" I scream, my throat feeling as raw as uncooked mincemeat. Pain is surging through my body, despite the best efforts of Jean, Rebecca and the Professor, and despite the heady cocktail of drugs coursing through my veins. "Don't be so fucking patronising!"

Hank smiles faintly. "It's what I do best, Betsy. Warren, perhaps you'd better take over from here."

"Come on, Betsy," Warren says, with a little trepidation. "You're nearly there, sweetheart – I can see the baby's head. Just a little further…" Almost instinctively, I reach down with unresponsive, scrabbling fingers to try and find my baby's scalp. Seeing what I'm trying to do, Warren finds my hand and guides it towards the soft fuzz that covers my – our – son's head. As soon as I touch it, I can feel a renewed energy flowing into my tired body from somewhere. I would call it a second wind, but I think I used that up about ten hours ago. The already white-hot pain intensifies further as I feel my son's head being forced out of my body, and I do the only thing I can do – scream with everything I have left, until all the pressure has been relieved.

And then, suddenly, it's over. I sink back against the edge of the birthing pool, panting and sweating, astonished that it's finally all finished. As I try to come to terms with everything that's just happened, Hank wraps my son in a blanket and hands him to me. "Congratulations, Betsy," he says softly. "You have a son, milady; and a fine strapping lad he is, too."

I nestle my son in my arms and take my first look at him. His small face is scrunched up in indignant horror at being moved out of his home so forcefully, he is squalling loudly, and he is still smeared with flecks of blood and mucus, his blond hair slicked down onto his blue skin.

He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Oh, Warren, look at him," I murmur, feeling happy tears coursing down my face. For a moment, it occurs to me that I must look incredibly silly… and then I remember that right now I couldn't care any less about that. "Isn't he wonderful?" I adjust my posture a little so as to make him more comfortable, nestling his head close to my left breast, and his cries quieten, becoming contented gurgling sounds instead. He reaches out with one of his tiny hands, and Warren lets him grip his little finger.

"That's my boy," Warren whispers. "That's my boy."

Once the placenta has been delivered and dealt with, Rebecca, Warren and I are left to our own devices in the med-lab – with strict instructions from Hank that my husband and daughter are not to exhaust me any more than I already have been, naturally. Rebecca reaches out with a cautious fingertip and gently touches her baby brother on the forehead, as if she is afraid she will hurt him somehow.

"He's so tiny," she says, stroking her brother's scalp and running her fingers briefly over the gently-pulsing fontanel at the top of his skull. She seems entranced by him, almost. "Is that what usually happens with childbirth? All the yelling and screaming and swearing?"

"I'm afraid so, button," I tell her tiredly, ruffling her hair with my fingers. "I bet I've put you off having children for life, haven't I?"

Rebecca looks thoughtful for a moment or two before she replies "No, not really. I just know I want to be knocked out before I have to go through what you just did, that's all."

"I wish I'd asked somebody to do that to me," Warren says, rubbing his forehead. "I mean, it's bad when you get someone else's headaches through a psychic rapport…" He smiles suddenly, his brilliant white teeth shining against his blue lips. "I don't think I'll ever complain about stubbing my toe again."

"You'd better not," I retort, finding the energy in me somewhere to smile back at my husband. "I shan't have any sympathy for you whatsoever." Just then, Tom begins to wail loudly, his little face twisting and splitting into a pink, toothless maw. I can sense that he wants to be fed, so I reach up to the buttons at the front of my nightdress with my free hand and offer him the nipple of my left breast, in order that I can nurse him for the first time. He begins to suckle insistently, and I can feel the thin trickle of milk from my breast increasing in strength, almost with every second that passes. After the day that we've both had, I don't blame him for being ravenous. "Good boy," I hear myself cooing, in a tone that I almost never expected to hear from my own lips. "We have to keep our strength up, don't we? It's been a long day."

After about ten minutes, Tom has had his fill, so I am able to sleep undisturbed for a while after the rest of my family leaves me alone in the med-lab. Warren takes it upon himself to put Tom into the cot beside my bed himself, laying his son gently onto the soft blankets and making sure that he is as comfortable as possible, before drawing the top blanket slowly over Tom's small, fragile body. Before he leaves, however, he bends at the waist and kisses his son on the forehead, letting Tom grasp his finger once more before he straightens up again. "Sleep tight, champ," he murmurs, surprising even me with his manner. "See you in the morning, Betsy. Love you."

"Love you too," I tell him, automatically. "See you soon."

* * *

 

Surprisingly, Warren is not the first person who comes to visit me.

The first person to come through the infirmary's doors the next morning is Logan. He looks as scruffy as ever – perhaps even more so, given the early hour (although having said that, Logan is usually up early anyway, so perhaps he didn't intend to do me the disservice of waking me up. Perhaps he thought that since I am also an early riser by nature, he wasn't doing me any harm by paying me a visit. As a creature of habit, Logan is by nature a person that is set rigidly into routines, and finds it very hard to break them).

That idea is borne out by his first words to me when I open my eyes to find him standing by the door of the infirmary.

"Oh, shit, Lizzy, I'm sorry," he mutters, embarrassed, an uncharacteristic redness coming to his rough, weather-beaten features. "Forgot you'd probably still be asleep. I'll go if you want me to –"

"No, Logan, it's all right," I reply blearily, rubbing sleep out of my eyes with one hand. "You can stay if you want to. I don't mind, really." I wave him over to the plastic chair that has sat by my bedside since last night. He walks over to me stealthily, careful not to disturb Tom, who is still slumbering next to me. Once he is sure he won't wake my son up, he leans forward and kisses me on the forehead affectionately, his rough muttonchop sideburns tickling my skin. Blinking away a few last lingering traces of fuzziness from the inside of my skull as Logan sits down, I continue "Come to see your new nephew?"

Logan shakes his head, his square-tipped fingers finding my hand as he does so. "Nah, I ain't really that good with babies – just wanted to see how you were doin', princess. Not every day somebody spends thirty-five hours in labour, after all. So how you feelin'?"

"Pretty good, considering I just spent thirty-five hours in labour," I say, raising a small smile. "I'm sore, I'm tired, and I have an absolute bastard of a headache, but I have a baby boy too, and that makes it all worthwhile, don't you think?"

"Ya know, time was you'd never have even considered doin' this," Logan says thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and putting one hand to his chin in a contemplative kind of way. "I remember you told me once that you were going to leave the whole 'family' thing for your brother – an' whichever poor sap he roped into sharing it with 'im." He chuckles, his sandpaper-harsh laughter filling the med-lab almost effortlessly. "Guess the universe had other ideas, huh?"

That makes me laugh. "I suppose so. Then again… I think Rebecca had something to do with it, too."

Logan raises a shaggy eyebrow, obviously intrigued. "Yeah? How so?"

"Oh, she made me realise that, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't spend my life just waiting for the next big adventure to come along. I had to take responsibility for something, and she was it." Pausing, I shift a little in my bed, so that I can become a touch more comfortable, softening the dull, persistent ache in my abdomen and easing the pins and needles that I can feel are beginning to prickle in the tips of my feet. "You saw how much I didn't want her to be here when she first arrived – and you saw how much she didn't want to be here, either. I didn't want to be anything to her, and she didn't want to be anything to me. Cable changed that; he bridged the gap between us. Rebecca stopped being a thing that I took care of because I had to, and started being a person that I took care of because I wanted to. She… I can't describe how it felt the first time she said she loved me, Logan, but I knew – right that instant, I knew – that the person I'd been was gone, and I needed to become somebody else, for her sake."

Logan pulls his cracked lips into a thin, thoughtful line for a moment or so, inclining his head slightly to one side. He scratches one of his sideburns with an uneven fingernail, and blinks once or twice. Thoughts are churning around his skull – I can feel them there, fighting to make sure that they are the ones to be given voice – but he's not sure how to articulate them. It's not often that Logan is lost for words, but I seem to be privy to the majority of those moments these days. "Lizzy, I –" he begins, as if he is unsure of where to go from there. "You know I had had bad vibes about that kid when she first came here, don't you?"

"I'm a telepath, remember?" I tell him, matter-of-factly. "There's precious little I don't know, at least when it comes to people's emotions."

"Guess not." Logan strokes his stubbly chin momentarily. "Anyway, what I was gonna say was that I never thought I'd ever like her. Ever. But because of what you did… well, put it this way: if you do the same with that boy of yours, you'll never have any problems."

"Thank you, Logan." Reaching across to my son, I touch his forehead briefly, almost to reassure myself that he is still there. "That means an awful lot." Turning away from my friend, I glance down at my boy, to check once more that he is in fact all right. He is still awake, but he is still quiet, too – his small blue eyes are trying unsuccessfully to focus on the ceiling, and he is untroubled by hunger (His nappy doesn't need changing, either, thank God…). Slipping my hands carefully under his body, taking an immense amount of care not to upset him, I cradle his head next to my bosom, letting him snuggle down into the warmth of my chest. "It's all right; he just likes to be close to his Mummy," I say, to a clearly uncomfortable Logan. "I'm not going to try and breastfeed him in front of you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Nah, that's not it, Lizzy," Logan manages, with more than a little difficulty. "I just get worried I'm gonna hurt really little ones – go berserk on 'em somehow. It's never happened yet, sure, but I always feel like I have to keep an extra-tight lid on myself whenever they're around – I think asked Yukio to take Amiko so she'd be protected from me, as much as anything else. I love that kid to bits, but I know she'll never be really safe until she's all grown-up. Least when she's a decent size, she can run fast enough to get away, ya know?"

"Logan, if a baby made you go berserk, I'd be the first to tell you that there was no hope for you." I nod down towards my son, who is sleepily clenching and unclenching his tiny hands. "Look at him – barring an act of God or a mutant terrorist, there is no way that he would be able to make you angry." I nuzzle Tom affectionately, and he touches my face with his fingers, brushing my cheek for a moment. "Is there, handsome?" That draws a delightful, but probably entirely coincidental, happy sound from my son, which encourages me no end. "So come on, Logan: I want you to hold Tom."

"Okay," Logan says, accepting defeat. "I know when I'm beaten. So what do I have to do, kid?"

"Just make sure you support his head and his back, and keep him steady, and that's about it," I say, carefully handing my son over to Logan, who takes Tom into his muscular arms as if he is afraid he is going to snap him in two. "Now you just let him get himself settled, and you should be fine." I try to avoid a rapid intake of concerned breath as Logan tries to make sure that Tom is comfortable, but in the end my fears are unfounded. Tom lies in the corded muscle of Logan's arms as easily as he did in mine, or my husband's. He even sneezes nonchalantly, making Logan almost jump out of his seat. When I can feel Logan's heart slowing down, I say "See? It's not so difficult once you get the hang of it."

"Easy for you to say," Logan retorts. "You've had more practice."

"That's no excuse," I say, irritated. "My spending a few hours more with a newborn baby than you have doesn't make me into Susan bloody Richards, you know. I'm just as much a learner here as you are, Logan, and don't you forget it."

"Sorry, darlin'. Didn't mean to patronise you none." Logan manages to look suitably penitent, so I let him off the hook for the moment. Then, he looks down at my son again, and a rare smile crosses his face as he looks over the small figure that nestles, doll-like, in his arms. "Kid's got his mama's eyes – look." He stands so that he can place Tom back in my arms, and then points out that my son's eyes have the same shape and subtle sky-blue colour of my own eyes. "Shame he's got his daddy's jaw line, though."

"You know, some people say my jaw line is pretty striking," Warren says dryly, as he stands in the doorway of the med-lab, his arms folded neatly across his broad chest. He looks as if he's just woken up, his chin unshaven and his hair uncombed. "Morning, Logan." He walks past Logan quickly, after the little man has given him a small salute to acknowledge his presence, and kisses me good morning. "Hi, honey. How you feeling today?"

"Like I've had a tank drive over me. Repeatedly," I say, wearily. "Other than that… I feel pretty good, all things considered. Better now that you're here, I think."

"Guess I'll leave you kids to it," Logan remarks, before getting up from his seat and clapping Warren on the shoulder with one thick hand. "You got a real handsome cub there, Wings. Gonna be a real lady-killer when he grows up, just like his daddy." He grins at me, winking. "See ya later, Lizzy. Take care of yourself, huh?" And without another word, he is gone.

"I think that's the closest you're ever going to come to getting a compliment from Logan, Warren," I say, once Logan has left the room. "You'd better make the most of it."

"I think I'd better do that, too," Warren agrees, before he holds up the large bunch of mixed tulips in his hand. "Here – I brought you some flowers. Had them delivered last night, but you'd fallen asleep by the time they arrived. So… well, here they are now. Hope you like them." Seeing that my hands are somewhat full, he holds them out in order to let me smell them before he puts them in the large glass vase on my bedside table, letting them settle into the clear water. "Rebecca told me to tell you that she'll be along in a couple of minutes. She said she needed to get showered and dressed first, but she promised that she'd be here." He pauses. "Did you both sleep well?"

"Like a pair of rocks," I reply. "Tom didn't need much coaxing to make him sleep all night – did you, sweetheart?" In response, Tom simply yawns again, making both Warren and myself smile broadly. "I think that's as good an answer as any, don't you, Warren?"

"Oh, absolutely." Warren leans over, and puts his finger into his son's hand to say hello, prompting Tom to close his fist instinctively. "Hi, champ," he says, his voice little more than a whisper. "Looking good." He brushes his lips gently across the delicate skin of Tom's forehead, and then sits down in the chair that Logan had formerly been occupying. He pulls at his robe to ease out some trapped folds, and then sits back against the chair's padded plastic back rest. "You know you're going to have pretty much the whole mansion coming down here sooner or later, don't you?"

"Not the whole mansion," I correct him. "I don't think Bishop will be too eager to play 'hold somebody else's baby', for a start."

Warren makes a face at me. "Okay, okay – the whole mansion, apart from those two. What I was going to ask you was whether or not you wanted me to ask them not to?"

"I already spoke to Hank about it after you left last night, after he'd checked me for any haemorrhaging and what-have-you," I say, tucking Tom's powder-blue blankets a little closer around his body. "He suggested making a timetable and getting people to keep to it, so I said I'd talk it over with you and let him know later today. So… do you think that's a good idea?"

"Certainly better than my idea of boarding up the doors to our room," Warren laughs. "Okay, Betsy… let's do that; at least until you're out of here, anyway. Not much we can do after that, though."

"Well, by then I should be strong enough to beat them off with a stick, so I suppose we'll have to take our chances, won't we?"

"Guess so," Warren says thoughtfully, before Rebecca arrives at the door of the med-lab, running a whalebone brush hurriedly through her long blonde hair. She has managed to get herself dressed as smartly as this hour of the morning will allow, her black jeans complemented by a simple white t-shirt and a pair of black flat-soled shoes. Quickly, she ties her hair back with a black band, and tries to look as unflappable as possible while she finds herself a chair to sit down on.

"Hi, guys," she says when she has done so, wheezing a little from her exertions. "Sorry I'm late."

"Rebecca," I begin, "nobody was keeping score. You're fine."

"I know that, but… I don't like telling people I'm going to be somewhere and then not showing up when I say I will," Rebecca replies. "I feel rude, you know?" She clears her throat quietly, and then stands to look more closely at her little brother. "I can't believe how small he still is," she breathes reverently. "Didn't he grow overnight?"

"No, Rebecca, he'll stay this size for months," I tell her, reminding myself that this is the first time she's seen a baby that wasn't an adult two days later. When she hears that, Rebecca grins – which surprises me.

"Good," she says, tickling Tom under his chin and making him smile widely. "That means there's more time for us to get to know each other…"


End file.
